Requital
by iboneki
Summary: Requital: n. a justly deserved penalty. syn: retribution 2: an act of requiting or returning in kind. TeamFic. Nickcentric. Set in S4.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Requital (1of?)

**Author:** iboneki

**Spoilers: ** _Anonymous_ and _Identity Crisis_. If you haven't seen those episodes or don't remember them, you may be a little lost. Check out www.crimelab.nl for episode transcripts.

**Rating: **T for language

**Summary:**_ Gil Grissom's team was like a family, she noticed. Well. He ruined the only family she ever knew. Now she'd ruin his. _

Set middle-ish season 4. Ensemble piece, but Nick-centric later on. The first chapter is a different POV, so hang with me and I'll get to our heroes soon enough.

* * *

She had always known her husband's secret. 

Ever since the very beginning, she was aware of his other life… his past life. But where most women would have had John Walsh on speed dial, she felt alerting America's Most Wanted would only hurt herself in the end. She had everything she ever wanted: a stable home with a loving husband and son, a job as a humble housewife… it was that magical, Ozzie and Harriet feeling she'd dreamt about as a young woman, and she feared never finding it again.

Some women endured their husbands' physical rage or waited as victims of infidelity in cold, lonely beds. Surely she could put up with secret identities and gender changes! It sounded almost comical to her ears now, that rationalization. But it was true. Being a family was everything to her – everything. Having the table set for three when he returned home every day. Rubbing his back as he lounged on the sofa reading the business section. Proudly watching their son's little league games. Now, it was nothing. And she was nothing.

So she'd told her son that a move would be good for them, like on _Sleepless in Seattle_. That ever-cool Tom Hanks felt much better when he wasn't surrounded by constant reminders of his dead spouse. Craig didn't understand the reference – you know kids – but his eyes lit up at the mention of flaming jugglers and white tigers.

But she knew better than to believe her own bullshit. Reminders didn't faze her.

No. It was there that she could find _him._ Gil Grissom. The man who, with a couple of speeding tickets and a jail bar fingerprint, destroyed her family. _Yes_. There, she could watch him work away on his current cases without a second thought to the hell he caused her… the desolate, vacuous excuse for a life she'd lived the past 2 years. It was only there, through this malefactor of a man, that she could finally achieve peace of mind. She just had to figure out how.

Looking back now, 6 months later, the move ended up being extraordinarily easy. Her husband had been good at pretending. Now, she mused, it turned out she was better. A little back-to-maiden-name-change here, a little makeover there, and voila! Even her own son hardly recognized her at first, and so far, no one else had either.

They left Mulberry behind, and after buying a modest 2-bedroom ranch just outside the city, she found a temp job in the office opposite the crime lab on Westfall Avenue. Insisting on working insane overtime hours, she was often able to watch Grissom and his shift go in and out of the building for the better part of three months. It was all she could really do; she just wanted a feel for his habits and who he worked with. After all, she _had_ to – soon after arriving, she tailed Grissom back to his house and was disappointed to find he lived alone – his colleagues would have to provide the clues instead.

More than pleased with her situation at the time, she was stunned to find a receptionist opening at the crime lab listed in the _Review-Journal._ She was even more astounded when, after a thorough interviewing process, she was offered the job: it seemed that not only God approved of her plan, but was a bit fond of good old fashioned vengeance.

The background check went through without a hitch – lest anyone say she didn't furtively pick up any of her late husband's skills throughout their years together – and before long she literally had a front row seat to see the bane of her existence every night. Finally, things were in motion.

Settling in and pasting on the daily bubbly receptionist facade, she began paying close attention to the dynamics of the lab employees. Now three months in, she felt her observations were all coming to a sort of culmination. There was absolutely no way, she mused, that anyone on this graveyard shift had a life outside of work. If they weren't on the clock or working overtime, they were out sharing a meal together. Or watching a game. Or playing those incessantly mind-numbing video games. Sometimes they even slept here.

This team of workaholics seemed as much of a family as any traditional one. It was obvious to her, or anyone really, that Dr. Grissom and the ever-impudent Catherine Willows were the surrogate parents of the clan. God only knows if that woman just realized, when dressing for work, that the men at her crime scenes were typically _dead!_ Well. Despite the obvious foils of their working styles, the two senior criminalists ran a shift that had their daytime counterparts looking like packrats at a vacuum cleaner convention. The three younger CSIs didn't disappoint; each fell into a sort of "offspring stereotype" accordingly: Warrick Brown was the cool, confident older brother, and perhaps held the most responsibility in Grissom's eyes. Sara Sidle was a brilliant mind with a raging attitude to boot – usually Catherine was her favorite target. And Nick Stokes was the boy scout with a serious case of Grissom-worship… it seemed he lived and died with his superior's approval.

But the family dynamics don't end there, she corrected herself, as a spiky-haired figure rushed past the desk. Greg Sanders, DNA wunderkind, was everyone's favorite annoying little brother. Even Detective Brass favored this shift over the others. She'd noticed how his gruff exterior lessoned in favor of protectiveness in dealing with graveyard.

She'd watched all of them rejoice in their collective triumphs, squabble like road-weary vacationers in a stuffy car, and overcome insurmountable odds all in the name of teamwork. She'd seen Catherine finish Grissom's sentences, Warrick and Nick take break-room Madden NFL as seriously as work, and Greg get Sara to smile at seemingly impossible moments. She'd noticed how they tend to celebrate holidays and birthdays together in between cases… how they'd snap at each other one minute and defend each other to the powers that be the next. They were a team… a real – albeit, dysfunctional at times – family... in every sense of the word.

And like Hell if that man deserved it.

The whoosh of the front door snapped her from her reverie; she smiled at the familiar figure approaching.

"Good evening, Dr. Grissom."

He nodded distractedly before hustling past the desk.

Her smile turned feral at the retreating form; she finally realized exactly how to get what she wanted.

Juliette Mason vowed to make her Douglas proud.

* * *

TBC. 


	2. Chapter 2

Requital (2of?)

Notes in Ch 1.

Thanks for the feedback on chapter 1. Now, for some characters you probably recognize.

* * *

"Oh come on, intentional grounding!" 

"No way bro, no way. Cleanest play all night. He had two receivers downfield."

"Yeah, maybe in the next time zone."

"They were perfectly close."

"Face it Nick, your 'Boys have been worthless ever since Aikman and Smith reached their prime and left. Texas is hurtin' for a good team these days!"

"Is that why my team is givin' yours a thorough ass-whoopin'?"

"Yeah well…"

"And speaking of past their prime, can you believe your hero Rice finally retired? How old is he, 57?"

"Just lay it on, Stokes. I'm sure you'd be doing this if you were losing."

Grissom shook his head as he neared the loudening voices. Those two were bad enough as it was with football, but when their teams played each other on the Monday Night stage, it almost became a matter of life and death. He poked his head inside the break room just in time for the two minute warning of the Cowboys-49ers game.

"Good. I thought that game would never end," he said, taking in Warrick's defeated slump and Nick's smug grin. "Since you guys are here, you might as well get an early start on this. I'll be back in five with a new assignment, so Nicky, try and hold off any impending suicide attempts on Warrick's part."

The supervisor spun on his heel and left the room before Warrick could even protest a reaction, but was pleased to hear the taller man retreat from his moping and remind Nick that the Cowboys have a date with the defending NFC champs next week.

Grissom continued down the hall and found he was suddenly longing for baseball season. Football was much too brash and impatient for his taste. He far more enjoyed the artistic intricacies of, say, a sacrifice bunt, over the brute impersonality of a fumble's mad pile-on. He supposed his Dodgers could make a run at 85 wins this year, as long as they signed a couple—

"Excuse me, Dr. Grissom?"

Just now realizing he'd actually stopped walking and was standing in the middle of the hallway pondering the Dodgers' middle relief, he turned towards the voice.

"I'm sorry to interrupt…" One of the newer receptionists was standing in front of him and hesitantly held out a pile of mail.

"No, no," he stopped her. "I was, uh… just thinking."

"Oh. Well I was just about to send someone down to your office with this. But since you're here, if you'd like to take it…"

"Oh, sure. Yeah, thanks." He quickly took the mail from her hands and moved towards his office.

Grissom mentally shook his head. His mind was wandering too much lately… probably from being holed up in his office too long. Even making small talk with the secretarial drones seemed too difficult for him today… but she was a nice enough woman. He picked up his gait a little, anticipating that the oddly soothing qualities only a fresh investigation could bring him were mere minutes away.

Heading into the dim confines of his office, he absently flipped through his mail: Discounts on beetle habitats. Information on upcoming entomology conferences. Requests for scholarly research on the uses of shrunken heads in forensic laboratories. Registration forms for cockroach racing. Blank postcard. Information on th— _blank postcard_?

He unconsciously swallowed before picking up the discarded piece of mail again. It was a simple, standard-sized postcard with the word _Seattle _scrawled across an image of a raincoat, rain boots, and a joke about the city's weather patterns. The back was addressed to him, but the message section was blank and the postmark read Las Vegas, Nevada. It was the third one he'd received in the last two weeks.

_Who knows what amuses the kids these days_, he thought, trying not to pay it any extra attention. Grissom placed the postcard in a drawer with the others – one, from the National Heritage Museum's Masonic Exhibit, and the other a family on the boardwalk in Santa Monica; both addressed the same way, both blank. The supervisor tried not to linger on speculative thoughts and instead grabbed the assignment sheet and moved back towards the break room to give his guys a nudge out the door.

"Alright guys, we've got a 419 just south of the Tangiers." He handed Warrick the slip. "Why don't you get up there and start processing and I'll be up as soon as I finish this paperwork."

Warrick's brow furrowed as he skimmed over the address.

"Didn't we just process this exact same spot last week?"

Nick snorted. "What, are you wallowing so hard in defeat that you're hallucinating crime scenes?"

"Oh whatever boy, you wouldn't know about that gig because you were too busy ralphin' all your Taco Casa leftovers!" Warrick laughed and stood up, stretching out his stiff back muscles.

"I don't remember it being that funny at the time," Nick huffed.

"I told ya, you eat that crap at your own risk, but then you try and give it a _second_ go the next night? You had no chance."

Nick was looking rather green at the memory, and Warrick grinned and slapped him on the back.

"I dunno, 'Rick, maybe you left the fridge open a crack and it spoiled," Nick paused. "Hey, what was the score again, tonight?"

Warrick threw him both a glare and the assignment sheet. "Let's get to work."

Grissom resisted rolling his eyes at the familiar display. "Remember guys, Cath and Sara are still working that double uptown, so it's just us tonight. I'll be out shortly."

He left the two CSIs in the break room and headed back to his office.

* * *

Surreptitiously typing away, Juliette could only imagine Grissom's reaction to her third little gift. He had the most meticulous, investigative nature – someone who wouldn't be able to move on if he couldn't solve the riddle. After all, she'd seen him pour over those exasperatingly dull crossword puzzles til all hours of the day. The first one probably didn't register much on his radar, but she _knew _the wheels were turning with this one. He had to think a pattern was emerging, and God only knew how pieces of paper spoke higher volumes to that man than actual people did. She knew he wouldn't disappoint. 

The receptionist glanced up from her screen as the _other_ object of her thoughts approached, still on the receiving end of jabs by his counterpart over his bout with bad Mexican leftovers.

Oooh, if they only knew.

Nick Stokes was a _good ol' boy_ with such a naturally idealistic disposition that, unfortunately for him, made her decision all too easy. His easygoing character allowed him to be much more trusting of those he didn't know well. And so last week's test run went over without a hitch. Nick didn't eat anything on a spicy scale less than 5-Alarm, so it's not like he'd ever notice a foreign taste. Of course, she was no scientist, but the Internet was a useful tool for becoming an instant expert in whatever the hell you want. She had a fairly good idea of how to proceed, and it's not like she couldn't just... move onto the next person if things got… _carried away_.

"G'night, Jules," Nick smiled and waved as they walked past.

_Jules?_ The man just oozed affability. She'd hardly ever had a real conversation with him, yet he could make her feel like a lifelong friend with the mere utterance of a ne're-used nickname. They all seemed to fit into respective roles: Grissom the enigma, Catherine the passion, Warrick the strength, Sara the brains… but Nick… Nick was truly the heart of the team. Grissom would likely never admit it, but he admired Nick's empathy… he probably even wished he had a little for himself, if only to feel more human. No matter, she mused… when a family loses its heart, there's no going back.

Juliette rose from her desk under the guise of heading for the recycling bin. Rather, it was from there she could just make out, through the glass office window, a bearded figure illuminated by a lone desk lamp. He had almost stared a hole through the small, paper object as he turned it over and over in his hands.

She smirked. It seemed the legendarily unflappable Gil Grissom was visibly troubled.

* * *

TBC 


	3. Chapter 3

Requital 3of?

Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed. It's strange writing a character that we only saw on screen for a single scene. I hope the POV switches haven't been/aren't confusing. Anyway, here's chapter 3. Feedback is, as always, encouraged and appreciated.

Notes in Ch. 1.

* * *

The incessant ringing of his alarm clock came all too soon. 

Nick blindly groped in the direction offending noise; he slapped the snooze button for the third time before he pulled the comforter tighter around his body and closed his eyes. The headache he went to bed with hadn't dissipated during his fitful rest.

Before he could return to sleep's beckoning grasp, the alarm blared again. His eyelids felt heavier than usual, but he finally pried them open enough to see he was running significantly late. _Shit._

He threw back the covers and quickly sat up.

_Oooh, bad idea_.

Hit with an unexpected onslaught of dizziness, Nick waited for his bedroom to stop spinning before slowly scooting to the edge of the bed.

Touching his feet to the ground, he gingerly rubbed his temples. Yeah, he was definitely coming down with something. It had been slowly building the past few days. Cath nagged him about not wearing a coat the other night when she stopped by the Tangiers to touch base with Grissom. And man, did she ever love being right. He was totally getting the _told ya so_ mother-glare at work today. He sighed and stood up slowly before heading to the shower.

Turning on the spray, he waited for it to warm to his preferred sauna-esque temperature. Growing up, Nick often woke up with aches and pains from the previous day's sports practices. Not to mention he had an immune system that was sometimes vulnerable to sudden weather changes. So on days like that, his mom would coax him out of bed by insisting there was nothing a hot shower couldn't fix. More often than not, she was right. Ten minutes under that luxurious heat and his muscles were ready for another day of pounding, or his sinuses were clear enough so he could sound normal when politely rejecting all – okay, most – of the girls at school. He smiled at the memory and stepped into the hot spray. A sudden shiver passed through his body and pulled him back to the present; he doubted a shower would fix this, but at least he'd wake up.

Fifteen minutes later and wearing his favorite jeans and a soft, black t-shirt, he padded out to the kitchen. The CSI felt a familiar ache in his stomach and immediately nixed the idea of his usual protein-charged breakfast; he nibbled on a piece of dry toast instead.

A few minutes later, he shoved a couple chewable Pepto Bismols in his pocket, pulled on his most comfortable blue hoodie and headed out the door.

* * *

"Greg, hand me th—" 

Catherine stopped as the magnifying glass suddenly appeared her hand. She gave the DNA tech a questioning glance.

"Come on, Cath," Greg smiled. "You know I anticipate your every need."

"Great, then you already knew we need a pot of coffee ready for the run-down meeting in fifteen minutes."

"It's the end of the shift. We've been here for hours. I know we wouldn't get anything accomplished otherwise."

Catherine examined the blood spatter photos without looking up. "Exactly. So get on it."

Greg gave her a mock salute and left the room. She set down the photo and the instrument and slowly rotated her head around, cracking the little kinks in her neck.

She had just picked up the photo again when the whoosh of the door sounded.

"Greg, I'm not smelling any Blue Hawaiian on you; you can't possibly be done already."

When he didn't answer, she looked up and was surprised to see Grissom locked into his own world, mumbling to himself and obviously looking for something.

"Grissom," she said, watching as he opened a drawer, digging errantly through its contents.

"GRISSOM!" Finally, his head snapped up and he fixed her with an annoyed glare.

_Oh, no._ If anyone had the right to be annoyed it certainly wasn't him. "Grissom, what in the _hell _is up with you? You've been spending untold amounts of time locked in your office this week, and I know for you that's not completely abnormal, but you at least usually give me a heads up on what you're working on so I know I'll be on my own for a while. Besides that, you were supposed to meet me hours ago to compare the blood spatter photos from the two scenes!" She took a calming breath as she noticed his apprehensive look. "Are you alright?"

"I…"

She waited for him to finish as he took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

"No."

Catherine found herself growing more nervous as she watched her friend glance around him as if he was being watched by hidden cameras. "Well what's going on?"

She saw him look around again. He sighed. "Let's go to my office."

They were out of the room and halfway down the hall before he spoke again quietly.

"I keep getting these… clues."

She almost stopped and stared at him. "Clues?"

"Yeah, in the mail. I brushed it off as some prank at first, but—" He pushed open the door to his office and allowed her to step in first, then closed it behind them.

"—But you've been holed up in your office studying them so hard that you think if you turn one of them _just_ a certain way, all of the sudden it'll reveal who stole the Lindbergh Baby?" Catherine had rarely seen him this troubled and tried to lighten him up a bit. "And then you'd get some wild theory but you didn't want to tell me since you knew I'd slap you upside the head with my Grissom's Crazy Theory Baton?" She really knew him to a "t."

"Basically."

She sighed. "Gil. This is _me_. Whatever it is, you have to remember that you can trust me to be your voice of... I don't know. Second opinion. I'm there to help you separate the 'innocuous' from the 'incendiary,' to put it in your terms."

"I know. And I should have. But the thing is … I don't think this is innocuous," he paused. "I got another today."

He moved behind his desk and opened a drawer, pulling out what looked like a few postcards. "I'm starting to see a pattern emerge and I don't like where it's taking me."

Catherine almost winced. That was never good coming from Grissom. She looked at the three postcards, now adorned with the other CSI's pen marks. The word "Mason" was underlined on one, and the rain boots were circled in another. _There's no way…_

She fixed him with an incredulous look, guessing where his thought process had lead him. "Isn't that a bit of a stretch? Rain boots and the Masonic exhibit? You don't really think this has to do with the Millander case…"

Grissom didn't answer, but instead handed her his newest "clue."

This time it was a typical Las Vegas postcard with an image of the Strip. But unlike the others, it had a message on the back. "'Trouble in the sandbox?'," Catherine read aloud. "I don't get it. And I don't see how the family on the boardwalk fits with the others either."

She looked up at Grissom for a reaction but he was just staring into space.

"Hey. Come on." She waited for him to look at her again. "I know that case was difficult to deal with, but it's doing you absolutely no good to let your mind go back there now. Paul Millander is not taunting you from the grave. These things are completely random."

He waited a beat before answering. "That's not what those cards are telling me."

There was no sense in trying to convince him otherwise, at least at this point. And Catherine knew damn well she didn't believe her own words -- she too was troubled by these mysterious events. If she let that show, though, it would give Grissom cause to divert his attention when they needed to give the current case their full focus. _Speaking of that..._ She glanced at her watch. Greg had probably led a mutiny by now.

"Alright. Let's go salvage what's left of the meeting – we're already late for it. Afterwards we can talk about this again, okay?"

He moved with her towards the door. "Yeah."

They walked down the hall in silence and entered the room to find a half-empty pot of Blue Hawaiian and most of the team looking rather impatient. This case was fairly cut-and-dry, and she guessed everyone just wanted to get this over with so they could go home. Day shift would be here in a few minutes, anyway.

Sitting down at the table, they noticed Nick's unhealthy pallor and half-closed eyes and exchanged a glance. Apparently today had been longer for some than others. "You know people typically sleep when they go home, right, Nick?" Grissom said lightly.

The younger CSI immediately perked up, but Catherine jumped in before he could answer.

"Nicky's decided it's a good idea to wear his coat from now on while processing scenes in 40 degree drizzle." She shot him a glare but softened at the miserable look in his eyes.

Slightly embarrassed, he ran a shaky hand through his mussed hair. "Nah, it's nothin', guys. Just a little bug or somethin'."

"I swear I didn't leave the fridge open this time, man." Warrick tried to joke with his friend, but it was lost on Nick.

She watched him sink back into the confines of his hooded sweatshirt, but didn't press the issue further. He was a big boy.

Ever the captain of the Good Ship CSI, Grissom promptly steered the group into laying out the different points of the case. He intently focused on Greg's DNA findings and made sure all his follow-up questions were adequately answered. But as they sat and listened to Sara cover the fingerprint data summary, Catherine could tell his mind was drifting elsewhere. She knew she'd be kidding herself if she said fingerprints were her present concern, too. _What in the hell was going on with these postcards? There's just no way… _

"… and Brass has already picked up the suspect – the prints are a direct match. We won't have to go back there until at least tomorrow to finish up. But it's pretty well done."

Catherine blinked, Sara's words finally puncturing her reverie.

Thank God for slow nights.

* * *

Juliette hovered around outside the locker room door. She'd been officially off the clock for an hour, but stuck around until the meeting that would never end…ended. She saw Nick bolt for the locker room right away and had decided to stick around until he came out. Finally, Nick emerged and, she noted smugly, looked positively miserable. This had all been a breeze so far. 

"Nick?" she started, hesitating until he looked over at her with a ghost of his usual charismatic smile.

"Oh… hey."

She took in his haggard appearance again. "Long day, huh?"

He looked a little uncomfortable. "Ah… yeah."

"I hope this isn't too forward of me," she hesitated again, holding out a Tupperware container. "But I heard you weren't feeling well, and this always helps my son when he comes down with a bug."

"Oh… um…" He seemed genuinely surprised that someone would do this for him. Funny, she always figured Willows mothered these people to no end… maybe she only does that in between her trips to Leatherrama. "Thanks… that's very kind of you, but I don't know if…" He accepted the container but looked at it skeptically.

"No no, it's made just for that." Juliette stopped him. "It'll help settle your stomach."

He looked relieved. "I guess I'll give it a try then, I mean, the pink stuff really wasn't working, and…" he trailed off with a sheepish shrug.

"And you weren't exactly sure what to try next without resigning to a doctor or your mother?"

He laughed. "Yeah, I guess that's—"

"Well I know you're a bachelor with your pride to consider; we don't have to tell anyone, right?" She winked and patted his arm. This was _way_ too easy.

"I appreciate it, thank you."

It was almost unfair, praying on his positivism like this. She knew he wouldn't refuse her offer because that may offend; she also knew he'd eat it later even against his better judgment because of the effort and thoughtfulness put forth on his behalf.

"And hey," he added, "Grissom will appreciate it too, when I'm not horkin' all over his lab tomorrow."

_Grissom._ She forced a smile and nodded in agreement. Well, so much for 'playing unfair.' Nick was just a kid caught in the crossfire, but then again, that was the point: she wasn't about to feel sorry for anyone on the in's with that bastard.

"Well, see ya around, then." He turned and slowly walked towards the front door.

"Good night, Nick," she called after him. _Enjoy._

_

* * *

_TBC...


	4. Chapter 4

Requital 4of?

Thanks again for all the feedback. This part is a lot longer than the others, for some reason. Also, I just now realized I have no idea if Grissom actually has a couch in his office. Well, he does now.

Notes 'n stuff in Ch 1.

* * *

Warrick parked his truck outside the familiar condo. He'd been disappointed to find that Nick had left the lab so quickly – he wanted to make sure his friend didn't need anything. Reaching into the back seat and grabbing the six pack of ginger ale, he briefly considered calling to make sure he was awake. _Nah. He'd probably just tell me not to bother._ He hopped out and walked up to the front door, encouraged to see the living room light still on. 

That encouragement quickly faded when the door opened and he saw the downright pathetic look of his best friend. Warrick hadn't seen such a lifeless countenance to Nick's eyes since he was doped up on painkillers after the Nigel Crane incident. Sweat beads on his forehead glistened in the porch light and he shivered as a light breeze rustled his cotton sleep pants.

Nick squinted, as if he wasn't sure who was standing on his front step.

"Hey, bro." Warrick held up the drinks. "Thought you might need this."

"Hey… thanks," Nick wrapped his arms tightly around his body. "But you shouldn't be here, man… you don't want a piece of this."

"That's what I take my mega vitamin for." He frowned at the way Nick was almost slumped against the door. "Let me put this in the fridge for you, and I'll leave you to get some rest."

Nick didn't respond; he retreated back inside and motioned Warrick to follow. The taller CSI moved to the kitchen and looked skeptically at a half-eaten bowl of some kind of soup. "You able to keep much down, now?"

"Dunno 'Rick, we'll see," he heard Nick call from the other room. "One of the receptionists gave me a home remedy, or somethin'. Wasn't too bad, I actually felt better for five minutes."

Warrick sympathized. It was hell having a constant upset stomach. He closed the fridge and walked back to the living room where he found Nick leaning against the couch and rubbing his temples. He really hated leaving him alone in this condition – Nick was too stubborn to ask for help. After all, Warrick thought, he'd act exactly like his friend if the positions were reversed.

"So, you need anything else? Up for a game or two of Madden? I'll even take pity and let your sorry ass have the ball first."

Nick looked up and actually seemed to consider the offer for half a beat, but then closed his eyes in resignation. "Nah, I better try and salvage some sleep. I really don't want to take a sick day tomorrow."

Warrick bit back an automatic protest. _This wasn't some little cold! Didn't he realize how awful he looks?_ "Well don't worry if you need to. Grissom won't mind." He walked towards to the front door and then turned back to his friend.

"Alright man, call me if you need anything," he waited for Nick to stop staring at the invisible spot on the carpet and meet his eyes. "I mean it. Don't be a jackass. Call."

He was rewarded with half a smile as Nick agreed. "I promise. See ya tomorrow."

* * *

Nick locked the door behind his friend and sighed. While he appreciated the gesture, he doubted ginger ale would kick this virus. He hadn't lied about Juliette's soup – it _did_ make him feel better… while eating it. But that was probably due to the fact it was the first time he'd had something other than soda crackers all day. But his stomach started churning again shortly after, and he felt the culmination of its vengeance would arrive soon. He decided not to tell her that it didn't work – she was kind enough to fix it for him. 

Nick grimaced as another sharp ache wracked his stomach. He was dizzied with pain so intense he had to glance down to make sure blood wasn't pouring out of his abdomen. Overwhelmed by how quickly the latest symptoms had manifested, Nick wondered if his body waited for Warrick to leave before imploding upon itself.

He staggered to his bedroom and grabbed his pillow and a sheet from the bed. If his current condition was any indication, it would make much more sense to sleep in the bathroom. After dropping the articles onto the cool tile floor, he stripped off his shirt. Nick couldn't decide if he was hot or cold. He was sweating like he just finished an intense game of 1-on-1 with Warrick, and his eyes burned like the seventh level of hell. But he couldn't stop shivering as the stale air met his damp skin.

Before he had time to consider what was happening, his stomach finally gave out. He sunk to the floor and retched for what seemed like hours until dry heaves wracked his aching body. He rested his sweaty face on the cool porcelain and waited for the impending aftershocks. Nick wearily recalled getting a flu shot a month or two ago; it was just his luck that he caught the 'abnormal strain.' After a few minutes he felt himself drifting off, so he gingerly lowered his head back to the pillow on the floor.

As Nick fell closer to sleep, he resigned to the fact it wouldn't last long. But he'd take whatever fitful rest he could muster – he had to be at work in a few hours.

* * *

"Dammit Greg, don't _worry_ about it!" 

Grissom ran a hand over his face as the lab tech retreated from his office like a wayward puppy. He rarely lost his cool, let alone snapped at his people like that… but Greg was the third person in the last hour to ask him about the mysterious postcards. He really should have expected it—this lab rivaled any junior high cafeteria as a gossip mill. The supervisor knew not to blame Catherine for telling anyone – not when David Hodges spent more time with his ear against Grissom's office door than a hypochondriac scheduled doctor's appointments. _Probably had the place wire-tapped, too._

He sighed and stood up. At least the details of his "theory" hadn't made the rounds yet. That would only create more unnecessary fervor among the staff. Grissom considered the first four pieces of mail again. Was he seeing what he _wanted_ to, or what was really there? That's why so many people believed fortune tellers. A so-called psychic may give details about an individual, but would keep the "facts" vague enough that any person could construe them into being miraculously unique to his own life.

_When is a rain boot just a rain boot?_

Grissom almost laughed at himself. Waxing a twisted Freudism only told him he'd been spending too much time thinking about these cards.

But still… nothing new had come in the mail today, so there was no use pacing around his office thinking about what may or may not come tomorrow. Maybe that was it. Paul Millander was _dead_ for pete's sake. Maybe nothing else would come, and this would just … solve itself.

_Right. _

Grissom resisted the obligatory "face-palm" moment and headed out to the hallway to clear his head.

Barely out the door, he almost ran smack into Catherine.

"Oh! Hey, Brass just called. They found another blood pool on the northeast side of the parking lot."

Grissom bit back a groan. "How could they miss that before? How could _we_ miss that?"

"No idea, but we better all go down there to make doubly sure nothing's screwed up this time."

"Ok. Page Sara and Warrick. I think I saw Nick in Trace earlier," he said, gesturing over his shoulder. "Walk with me."

Catherine cleared her throat. "So ah… get any mail today?" Her voice was a hair above a whisper.

"No need for your stellar covert ordinance tactics. Our lab gossip machine is in full-force."

Catherine rolled her eyes. "Hodges?"

Grissom shrugged. "No matter. I don't think anyone knows about my 'theory,' though."

Catherine stopped outside the Trace Lab's door. "You're still going with that?"

"I don't know. The only thing I know for sure is, the next 'clue' that waltzes its way in here is getting treated like a piece of evidence. DNA, prints, ALS, the whole buffet, not just the dessert cart. I'm tired of this game already."

He watched for her reaction – she didn't seem surprised. "You don't think the others would give you anything?"

"Maybe, but I've pawed them so much, scribbled on them… it was stupid, really. Careless. But I didn't think anything of it at the time."

"Let's just not worry about it until the time comes," she said, pushing the door open. "If someone is trying to mess with your head and distract you, they're doing a pretty good job."

Grissom finally cracked a smile. "Messing with my head, huh… at least it's not Ecklie for once."

"Hey, you don't know that."

He raised an amused eyebrow at the other CSI before turning his attention to Nick, who was sitting at a table across the room looking through his file report on the fiber analysis of the last case.

"Hey Nick, we just got a call and have to head back over to…" Grissom trailed off when Nick finally looked up from the file. He was hunched over in his hooded sweatshirt again, despite the room's relatively warm temperature. His face was devoid of color, almost a pasty grayish-white, save a flush high on his cheeks, and his eyes were glazed and listless. The supervisor had just assumed Nick was feeling better since he came to work today.

Before Grissom could finish his thought, Catherine had quickly moved to where Nick was sitting.

"Nicky," she lightly admonished. "Why'd you come in today?" She brushed some errant sweaty locks from his forehead. "You don't have to prove anything by coming into work when you're sick. We were just teasing you yesterday."

Nick flinched slightly at her touch. "I know, but I can work. I'll be fine."

Catherine scoffed. "Look in a mirror lately? Doc Robbins' latest appointment looks better than you right now."

Grissom silently agreed. It appeared Nick had gone from bad to worse rather quickly. He waited for Nick's somewhat predictable, stubborn rebuttal.

"Look, I want to be here when we close out this case. Griss has to be sure the details about the fibers at the second crime scene are accurate for my testimony."

The supervisor finally jumped in. "Okay, look. You can do that later. We have to go back and figure out what happened with this other blood pool at the first scene. Why don't you just take it easy and sleep on the couch in my office until we get back. Maybe by then you'll feel well enough to go over the testimony."

Nick hesitated for a moment; Grissom figured the younger man understood this was more of an order than a suggestion. "Yeah, okay."

They lead Nick down the hall and watched as he sagged onto the couch, quickly leaning back and closing his eyes in defeat.

Catherine put her hand on his shoulder. "Did you take anything?"

"No… figured it would just come right back up."

"I'm sorry, Nicky," she rubbed his arm. "I wish I could do something for you."

Nick just gave a tired smirk and mumbled something like "I'm fine."

Catherine looked back up at Grissom and gave a half-shrug. They both knew he shouldn't be here, but figured a few hours of quiet rest while they were out closing the scene was a better option than sending him behind the wheel of his car to go home.

"Okay, well don't even think about getting up until we get back. Then we'll see about other areas of business."

Grissom wasn't sure why, but he felt apprehensive about leaving Nick behind; but he quickly blamed frayed nerves over his 'mail.' He grabbed his kit and with one last look behind him, headed for the parking lot with Catherine.

* * *

"…Nick…ick…?" 

Someone was shaking him.

"…Nick!..."

He couldn't remember for the life of him where he was. But gradually he became aware of the musty, lumpy fabric beneath him and realized he was on Grissom's couch. He cracked open tired eyes and a blurry figure swam into view. It was Juliette from the receptionist's desk. Somehow, he still had the presence of mind to hope she didn't bring more soup.

She was shaking him a little harder now so he tried to focus as best as he could. He felt a hand brush his forehead.

He tried to turn away from the touch. "Hmmm?"

"Nick, you're burning up. You shouldn't be here. I'm going to take you to a doctor."

He felt himself sober up slightly at the mention – check that, _threat_ – of "doctor." After all, he was an adult male. Nick opened his eyes a little more.

"Donneedone," he slurred. "Rick'll takem'home when h'gets back."

"No, Warrick's out processing with the rest of the team. I, uh, called him and they won't be back for hours. He told me to take you home. Come on." Nick wasn't in any shape to protest, and if Warrick said so…

He felt an arm move under his and try to take on his weight. She only succeeded in pulling him upright on the couch. "C'mon Nick, I can't carry you out alone. Would you rather I call an ambulance?"

That certainly got him moving.

Leaning heavily on the smaller woman's side, they lurched out of the room and down the hallway. His head was so fuzzy that he could hardly make out the familiar shapes around him.

When he felt them come to a halt, he tried opening his eyes wider but the light just made his head hurt more.

"Nick?" It was a voice that sounded vaguely like Archie's. "You need some help?" A question probably not directed at him.

"No, it's okay. Nick asked me to take him home since the guys won't be back for a couple hours. He never should have come into work today, right Nick?"

'_**I** asked her'?_ Nick could have sworn that just a few minutes ago she told him that _Warrick_ instructed her to drive him home. Then again, his mind was spinning so fast she could have been dressed as Darth Vader and he wouldn't have noticed. So, damned with the details – anything to get this operation moving so he could lie down again. "Yeah," he agreed.

"Are you sure you don't need some help?"

"NO! I mean, no, uh, Nick doesn't want to make this into a big thing, you know?"

While that was true, he really wouldn't mind having Archie come along. He didn't exactly feel comfortable with the receptionist, so if he had to puke all over someone's car, it might as well be a friend's. Nick tried to voice his opinion but it only came out as a strangled groan.

"Right. OK Nick, I'll have Warrick call you when he gets back. Hope you feel better."

He didn't get a chance to answer before Juliette started moving them along again. It was hard to walk on such shaky legs but the promise of his warm, soft bed and hours of uninterrupted sleep urged him onward.

Suddenly he felt a blast of cool air as they moved outside. He shivered and stumbled slightly, but his companion held fast on his arm. She was encouraging him to keep walking, but he vaguely noticed that the mothering tone had been replaced by something more menacing.

"Jesus Christ, come on!"

Confused at her change in demeanor, he pushed along, feeling steadily worse with every step. He could hardly make out Juliette's mumbles through his hazy mind.

"…we'll see… that bastard … gets a clue now … better figure out soon … don't worry Nick … get yours… "

Everything was a jumble of sounds and swirling colors around him. He honestly couldn't tell if they were in the CSI parking lot or down on the Strip.

A car door opened and he was pushed none-too-gently into the back before the door slammed shut again. His body tilted over on its own accord until he suddenly felt cool leather against his overheated skin. He heard another door slam and then felt a hand reach back and lift up the side of his sweatshirt.

Nick barely had time to consider why she was taking his gun before he passed out across the back seat.

* * *

TBC… 

I'll be out of the, uh, office, you could say, all weekend… so unfortunately I won't be able to update as fast. Leave a review and let me know what's up!


	5. Chapter 5

Requital 5of?

Notes 'n stuff in Ch. 1

Seems like each chapter is longer than the last... hope no one minds -- you'll have to let me know... this one is a monster. Also, thanks for all the feedback. Keep it up. You guys rule.

* * *

"I think it was just a coincidence, but Brass will let us know how the interview goes." 

Grissom held the door open for Catherine as they entered CSI headquarters.

"I know, I just hope it wasn't a complete waste of time," she answered. "I'll just be glad when we finally close this one out."

Grissom just nodded in agreement as they walked past the front desk.

"Hey Grissom," he heard Warrick call from up ahead. "I thought you said Nick was sleeping in your office 'til we got back?"

Grissom exchanged a look with Catherine. Nick was forever a "pleaser" -- always trying to overcome his self-imposed stigma of inferiority. He had nothing to prove – his intelligence and determination always spoke for itself. Grissom wished Nick realized that nothing would make the supervisor happier than seeing him take some well-needed rest and forget about work for a little while.

"I knew I should have bolted my office door shut. He's probably mulling over his fibers report again. Check Layout or Trace."

"He's not in Trace or—"

Warrick was cut off by Archie coming out of AV and flagging him down. "Hey Warrick, Grissom. Nick left about an hour ago. He asked that new receptionist to take him home. I told him you'd call."

"He _what?_" Warrick sounded as incredulous as Grissom felt.

"I saw him walking out of here, leaning on that woman from the front desk… can't remember her name. But anyway, he looked like hell. I mean it— there is no way he could have made it outside on his own. I asked if they needed help, and she said no, that Nick asked her to take him home."

Grissom remained silent, pondering this latest unexpected development while Warrick opted to verbalize his feelings, trying to sort out Nick's logic. "I can't believe he'd do that. He must have been really hurting to be that desperate. He knew we were coming back soon."

The tall CSI pulled out his cell phone and hit a familiar speed dial. He paced around impatiently, rubbing his forehead with the heel of one hand as the other held fast onto the phone.

"Nick, it's me. Pick up, buddy." Pause. "Alright, well if you get this message I'll be over in a few. Just put on some pants, will ya?" Warrick snapped the phone shut and dug his keys from his jeans pocket. "Ok. I'm going over there."

"Call us after you talk with him, please."

"Will do."

* * *

Juliette drove leisurely past the rows of cookie-cutter suburban houses. Street lamps slightly illuminated the driveways, revealing minivans, basketball hoops and scattered toys. She noticed a baseball glove leaning against the front step of a house. In her mind's eye, she saw a father teaching his son how to throw the perfect curve ball; then saw the son excitedly running inside to tell his mother what he'd just learned. 

Before the tear could fall from her eye, she remembered her vow. _I'll make you proud, Douglas._

Pulling into the driveway of a familiar two-bedroom ranch, she cut the engine and considered the evening's events. Nick had deteriorated a lot faster than she'd anticipated. It was almost a spur-of-the-moment decision to start the next, er... phase. She hoped that AV tech wasn't too suspicious of her, but hell, they'd all find out soon enough. To be honest, she was getting rather impatient at Grissom's apparent lack of creativity in interpreting her clues. Wasn't this guy notorious for pulling theories out of his own ass? How was Douglas so patient in toying with him all those months? She supposed Willows was probably keeping him grounded, but there's no way this last clue would get by him. Not with the gift she supplied him. Then, she knew, the real game was on.

_Speaking of the real game._

She turned her attention to the unconscious form across her back seat. She didn't think he was in any condition to run off on her, but the man was more cut than a Chinese gymnast, so far be it from her to underestimate a sick man's strength and determination. She reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a pair of authentic police handcuffs that she found in one of Doug's boxes of random junk. She grabbed Nick's arms and brought them to his front, snapping the cuffs around his wrists and almost wincing at the heat radiating off his body. Damn. She hoped he wouldn't die just yet. Maybe she should have used something less potent. No matter, she mused. It would all turn out the same anyway.

Glancing at her watch, she turned back around and opened up her door. Grissom and his team were due back soon. She had to get moving.

Pulling a house key from her purse, Juliette unlocked the front door and walked inside. She moved directly to her son's room; he was visiting her sister's family this week. Playing with his cousin Jeffery was the only thing that made Craig happy these days. She took in all the trinkets, mementos, and toys strewn around the room in a way that only a twelve-year-old could muster. She hoped… she hoped he would understand. He had to. Her son deserved to be around a real family all the time. Something she couldn't provide now. Or ever again.

Walking back through the living room, she stopped at the computer and printed off the pre-prepared note. Once the deskjet spat out the finished document, she grabbed it and walked to the kitchen table where a familiar object rested. It was as precious to her as a family heirloom, and in some ways it _was_ one. And now it would haunt the man who haunted her. She arranged the piece of paper and the object to her liking and walked back towards the front door, stopping only to lightly touch the lone family photo hanging in the hallway.

It was the only way.

She got back in the car, started the engine, and turned around to spare a glance at the sick criminalist. He didn't appear to have moved from the spot she left him. She reached down and touched two fingers to the side of his sweaty neck and felt a rapid, albeit thready pulse. Before she could turn back around, his eyes fluttered and opened, staring at her groggily.

"Hello, Nick," she smiled sweetly. "Boy, you don't look so good."

He finally gave a shaky glance down to his cuffed hands. "Wh…"

Juliette figured he wasted all his adrenaline getting from the lab to the car, but it appeared he had more to spare. She watched calmly as he struggled to sit up, pulling fruitlessly at his cuffed hands. His legs flailed awkwardly and kicked against the back of her seat. "s'goin on … why…"

Jeez. The last thing she needed was him kicking out a window after she started driving. She'd been drugging him for days and he was still putting up half a fight?

"Christ almighty, you have the constitution of a bull elephant," she muttered, grabbing the CSI's gun from its place on the front passenger seat. She'd thought he'd ingested enough to be pretty incapacitated, but then again she wasn't a scientist. Still though… judging by the way he looked now, if she gave him any more he'd probably kick it. And too early.

_Time to improvise._ She looked into his glazed eyes for a brief moment before swiftly bringing the gun down on the side of his head. He crumpled back onto the seat with a soft thump, blood running down his face.

The girls at the country club always said she had a killer forehand.

* * *

Grissom was making his way to the DNA lab when his cell phone started ringing. He stopped and unclipped it from his belt, pausing to glance at the caller ID. Warrick. 

He answered without pretense. "How is he?"

The notoriously cool CSI's voice betrayed his panic. "I don't know. He's not here."

Grissom felt like one of those old cartoon characters doing an overly-dramatic double-take. "What?"

"I don't know, I, I looked everywhere. He's not here. This place hasn't been touched."

Grissom pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to figure out a way to calm the other man without revealing his own worries.

"Okay. Archie said Nick looked like the living dead. Maybe he asked to go to a hospital instead."

"Come on – this is _Nick._" Grissom held the phone to his ear, taking in Warrick's words as he entered the DNA lab._ "_He would rather root against the Cowboys."

"Well, if he felt bad enough to ask for a ride home, maybe he was desperate enough for a doctor. Or maybe she convinced him."

"Griss, we hardly even know this woman. Can't you get her cell out of personnel or something?"

"I'm already on it. Why don't you get over to Desert Palms right now and see if he's there. Don't waste time calling – your badge will speak louder. Call me as soon as you know something."

"Yeah." Warrick hung up without another word.

He closed the phone and approached the table where David Hodges was cleaning up. "Hodges. I need you to drop whatever you're doing and go to the personnel office and look up the stats on our newest receptionist, Juliette… I think her last name is Ross. But find her address, phone numbers, what kind of car she drives…" he trailed off, knowing Hodges probably had guessed the reason for his inquiry.

"You got it."

Catherine poked her head in the door.

"Hey. Walk with me." She was holding something behind her back. "Did Warrick call?"

"Yeah, he said Nick isn't home."

"What?"

"I don't know. He's going over to Desert Palms now to see if he's there. No one is picking up on his cell."

"Do we have the cell number of Receptionist Nursemaid?"

"Hodges is getting it for me." He looked down at the way her arm hung somewhat awkwardly behind her right side. "Catherine, if something besides the whereabouts of our guy is on your mind, you best let me know."

She bit her lip and handed him a small object. "This time it was in my mail. I didn't check it until just now."

Grissom said nothing, his mind already spinning.

This time, instead of a postcard, a simple piece of cardstock rested inside of a standard mail envelope. Grissom snapped on a glove and pulled it out, willing his hand not to shake. His brow furrowed as he read the scrawled message. "'Your friend seems stressed. Try Yoga'," he paused and looked up at Catherine, then read the remainder of the message. "'It's Graveyard Shift. Do you know where your children are?'"

Grissom glanced at her, then spun on his heel and walked off without a word.

"Hey!" she called after him. "Where are you going?"

He didn't answer; instead, he disappeared into his office, re-emerging seconds later armed with the other four postcards and a jar of Red Creeper. The entomologist made a beeline for the Print Lab.

He heard Catherine catch up to him from behind. "Well at least let me help you!"

They spread out the first four cards in order of arrival, with the piece of cardstock at the end of the line. He studied them for a minute before Catherine finally spoke.

"The envelope was self-adhesive… probably won't get DNA off it."

He nodded and opened up his jar of self-concocted _serious print powder_. "I'm starting with the last one first."

Just as he dipped the brush into the powder, Sara entered the lab with Greg following close behind. Apparently news travels at a record pace these days.

"We heard."

Grissom spoke evenly, leaving no room for debate. "And we've got it covered."

Despite his words, he saw Sara move next to him, and then felt her hand gently cover his. He looked up, annoyed, but she spoke before he could say anything. "I know you want to pull out all the big guns," she said, her eyes flicking to the Red Creeper, "but you'll get more off cardboard if you fume it."

Wow. She was right. He couldn't believe his carelessness; it was the rare moment when his emotions were beating his logic in the perpetual race of his mind. He looked at Sara: his eyes reflecting his thanks, and her eyes returning her unwavering support. He really did have the best team in the world.

Grissom picked up the cardstock in a gloved hand and clipped it inside the top of the fume tank. He used his hand to wave off fumes that were billowing out of the top, waiting to see what would emerge on the card.

Catherine moved around to the other side of the table and peered intently into the tank. "Looks like a few smudges and one index right in the center."

He felt his heart race uncharacteristically. Collecting and processing evidence had forever been his aura of calm – when evidence spoke to him, it quenched his inquisitive nature like a desert spring. Right now though, he only felt a constant state of anxiousness. It was hard not to keep retreating to his Millander theory, but he still was aghast to its possibility. Grissom was certainly someone who lived for the present, but that case, over the course of years, was still one that haunted his steps.

Sara must have sensed his wandering mind and proceeded to transfer the print to film. By the time he re-emerged from his thoughts, she had already finished..

"Okay, ready."

He exchanged a look with Catherine and watched as she took the film from Sara's hand. "Let me run it." She keyed in a few details and the database began searching for a match.

Sara stood up and crossed her arms, looking at the evidence on the table. "Grissom, what is it about these postcards that has you so frazzled? It's probably just a prank," She shook her head. "I haven't seen you this worked up since the Paul Millander case."

As if on cue, the computer beeped, signaling a successful search.

Sara looked over at them expectantly.

Grissom squinted at the screen.

Catherine's face drained of color.

Greg seemed to choke on his own saliva. "Uh, funny you should mention that, Sara."

"What?" She moved around to join the rest of them at the computer monitor.

Grissom's eyes were practically boring holes into the screen. The blinking "match" cursor and its subsequent results taunted him like a boorish fan in the 14th row of a basketball game: close enough to hear, yet so unreachable. So unavoidable. Messing with the player's heads and knowing there's nothing they can do about it.

_Why why why… how...  
_

He continued his painful countenance as his colleagues exchanged bewildered exclamations around him. Their voices sounded far away, like at the end of a long tunnel of his consciousness.

"Oh my God."

"The print says it's a match to Paul Millander!"

"I know what it says, Catherine, it's right in front of us."

"Does someone want to tell me how a dead guy's prints landed on your mail?"

"Who would have access to…"

"His mother is dead. He's dead."

"Does anyone else know details about his case? Did he have any other family?"

"Grissom, what in the…"

_Family. Family. Family. Oh God. He had two families._

"GRISSOM!"

He blinked and looked up at his colleagues. Before he could answer their questioning stares, Hodges breezed into the room holding a file folder.

"Hey Boss." He'd almost forgotten about their _other _situation, he realized somewhat guiltily. The lab tech tossed the folder onto the table and took in all of the stunned expressions of the room. He spoke almost smugly. "Aaah, get another piece of mail, did ya?"

Grissom had learned long ago to ignore Hodges' tactlessness.

"Did you get a number?"

"Yeah. You know, I saw her talking to Nick a lot this week. I swear that guy could attract a moldy piece of bread without even trying."

Catherine shot him a look. "I'm sure she's a perfectly kind woman, David. Get a grip." She picked up Grissom's phone. "I'll do it."

She dialed the cell number and sighed after apparently reaching her voicemail.

"Hello, this is Catherine Willows. We're trying to get a hold of Nick, so please call me back at the lab when you get this message. Thank you."

_Family. Family. Family._

Grissom was sucked back into the throes of his mind, which suddenly flashed to a quaint house in a small town. A housewife teasingly admonishing her husband for his personal hobbies. A son putting together a school safety kit. A dinner table set for three – and a guest – with light conversation and home-cooked food. A slice of life that could be placed into any idealistic '50s television program.

_Uh, I have to get back to my lab right away. I'm sorry. Thank you for a lovely dinner, Mrs. Mason._

But, he considered, there's no way she'd be pressed to…

Grissom shook his head and tried pulling himself back to the present – they still didn't know where Nick was -- he could deal with these prints after they made sure Nick was alright. He casually glanced down at the receptionist's personnel file, still opened to the page with her contact information where Hodges had left it.

Wait.

That said…

He read it again. He couldn't believe what he was seeing.

_Name: Juliette M. Ross. Marital Status: Widowed. Birthplace: Mulberry, NV. Past addresses… _

"Greg. Pull up the Clark County Auditors website." The lab tech looked at him quizzically. "I need a list of the current and former property owners of 21 Roseleaf Ave., Mulberry."

"But what about the pri—"

"Just do it. Please."

Greg hopped onto the nearest computer and the supervisor went back to studying the file, purposely ignoring the look he was sure Catherine was giving him. _Dependents: 1 son – adopted 8/12/92._ The similarities were just too coincidental. How could…

Greg interrupted his train of thought. "Currently registered to a Robert Hill. Sold about six months ago. Only one former owner, D. P. Mason."

_Mason. Doug Mason. Mrs. Mason. She never fully introduced herself._

He barely heard the shrill ring of his phone, which Catherine promptly answered.

"Warrick?" She paused, listening. "Are you sure? Just—okay. Get back here right away."

_Rain boots. Masonic Exhibit. Family vacation._

He sunk deeper into his thoughts, not really acknowledging Catherine and Sara's tense exchange.

"Warrick said Nick's not at the hospital."

"God. Then where…"

"Gil! Did you hear what I said?"

_Family. Sandbox. Children. _

_Mrs. Mason. Widow. Family._

_The last clue...  
_

_'It's Graveyard Shift. Do you know where your children are?'_

_Nick._

_Nick's not at the hospital. __  
_

He looked down at the file photo attached to the folder, thinking back to the small talk and exchanges of pleasantries during the past few months. _That face. He knew it. Different. Made-over, but… how could he miss it before…_

_  
He'd never forget that dinner._

_Nick.  
_

"Gil! Snap out of it!"

He felt his heart plummet, and had to swallow before finding his voice again.

He finally met Catherine's eyes. "We have a serious problem."

* * *

TBC 


	6. Chapter 6

Requital 6 of ?

Hey kids. Sorry for the delay. Thanks for the feedback and remember that it pays my gas bill.

Notes 'n stuff in Ch. 1.

* * *

"Come _on!"_

He swore the light had been red for at least eight minutes.

Jim Brass was not a patient man. In fact, the virtue of patience was conspicuously lacking in the amiable qualities of any typical New Jersey native. After all, he recalled, half the time cars there aren't even allowed to turn left. The state legislators would say that's because left turns are dangerous, and this law prevented accidents. But any native knows better – people there are just too damn tired of waiting at lights.

God, he missed Jersey sometimes.

He finally got moving again and within a few minutes was pulling into the CSI parking lot. Parking up near the door, Brass cut the engine and reached for his coffee – probably long cold by now. But before he could test its potency, his cell phone went off.

Brass glanced at the caller ID. Grissom.

He got out of the cruiser and flipped open his phone. "Tell me you've got a roach as your special witness in the double."

Grissom sounded like he was in no mood for games. "Brass. I need you to get a unit over to 853 Arbor Trace right now. Send whoev—"

"Gil," he interrupted, pulling open the front door. "I'm walking into CSI as we speak; what in the hell—"

He trailed off as a very flustered Warrick Brown barreled past him into the building without apology. Before he could spare a thought to Warrick's deal, he looked down the hall and was surprised to see a gang of – angry? worried? – criminalists hustling his way. Brass put up his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, I know I called you all back to the scene, but there's no need to lynch a guy."

The comment seemed lost on those who approached. He decided it was probably better just to wait and see what all the commotion was and ask questions later.

Grissom placed his hand on the back of the detective, urging him to move towards the door again. As the entomologist explained the situation, Brass ruefully wondered how Paul Millander was still kicking their asses after 4 years. While Grissom finished telling the final known details, the Captain spared a glance at Nick's partner and found him, predictably, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. Catherine looked disturbingly pale, and Sara appeared to be on the verge of tears. This absolutely _had_ to end well.

He pulled out his phone and radioed to the nearest patrol on duty.

"Hey. We've got a helluva 427."

Brass rattled off the address and other details to the patrol. As he finished up, David Hodges jogged up to the group and was most certainly going to pop a valve if forced to remain silent any longer. After being ignored by Grissom for a few beats, he finally spoke.

"Hey, uh, Boss…"

Grissom gave him an exasperated look. "What is it, Hodges?"

"I told you I saw, uh, her hanging around Nick a lot this past week. Well the other night before he left I saw her give him something, I guess to help with his flu," Grissom and Brass exchanged a harsh look. "I dunno, it looked like soup or something, but I bet…"

Grissom ran a hand over his bearded chin. "That Nick's illness isn't coincidental. Or accidental."

Brass bit back a smirk, despite the seriousness of the situation. He knew Hodges was the town gossip, and maybe it wasn't such a bad thing this time. His eyes moved back to the supervisor. Grissom's face held a rare front of guilt. Guilt at not figuring the situation out sooner, guilt at Nick being apparently drugged, guilt at Nick being taken, guilt at having the team's psyche screwed with again… probably all of the above.

Warrick let out a sudden groan, remembering. "Yeah. I was over there… I saw it on Nick's kitchen counter – half-eaten."

Grissom didn't waste time with hearing the details. "Hodges, you and Greg get over to Nick's place and pick up the leftovers. It won't help us find him any faster but at least we may know what we're dealing with." Grissom seemed to have said the last line more to himself, as Warrick took Nick's key off his ring and tossed it to the lab tech.

As they retreated out the door, Brass knew the situation had just gone from bad to inconceivable. It was enough that Nick was held at the whim of a likely psychotic woman, but now it would be harder to count on the young CSI's typical quick mind and resourcefulness in helping the team locate him. Being so sick meant he probably couldn't help himself… then again, Brass knew Nick Stokes wasn't easily underestimated.

"We're wasting time. Let's go." Warrick started for the parking lot. "I'll drive."

Brass knew how this could end up – better to speak up now. "'Rick! Wait!" He was given an icy glare in response.

The detective turned to address the collective graveyard shift.

"Remember you can't just go barreling in there. We're…" he paused, licking his lips. "We're all worried about Nicky. But just let us do our jobs first."

A few slight nods of agreement and they were heading for the Denalis.

Brass paused briefly to check his magazine. Full. He replaced the gun in its holster. _If she laid another finger on that kid,_ Brass swore, _he'd show her just how Jersey handled turnpike trash._

_

* * *

_

Somewhere, there was a distant humming. It was almost peaceful, like the first time he visited Hoover Dam. The impressiveness of the sight had awed him into silence, and the only sound filling his ears was the hum of electricity.

But this was something different.

Just as Nick realized the sound came from the high-speed glide of wheels on pavement, the force of his headache slammed him full-on. Swallowing convulsively, he tried to get his bearings, but only received a stab of pain in response. Not daring to open his eyes just yet, he could only guess at what the slightly irritating, sticky feeling was on the side of his face. Maybe he could just lift up an arm and swipe it off—

_Oh._

He really thought he'd hallucinated those handcuffs, but the metal biting into the skin of his wrists proved otherwise… and he guessed that meant he hadn't hallucinated the other things, either. _Great._

"Nick?"

Oh no. This had to be some psychotic side effect of his illness. There's absolutely no way he was—

"Nicky. Come on now. I know you're awake by the change in your breathing."

But that would mean she wasn't taking him to—

"It went from shallow and ragged to _really_ shallow and ragged."

Was it his imagination that she actually sounded smug about his current well-being? He decided to find out for himself. Squinting through the blurry haze that served as his vision for the time being, he saw a familiar shape driving the sedan.

"Wh…"

"What's that, Nick? Not feeling so great, hmmm. Well don't worry; eventually you won't feel a thing."

Normally he might have considered the irony of her C-horror movie clichéd villain line, but the overwhelming pain of his body told him this was all too real. _What in the hell is going on?_

"I got a little bored waiting around for your boss to interpret my postcards, so I decided to speed up the process."

Wait._ She _was the one sending Griss that mail? Nick swallowed thickly and tried to concentrate on what she was saying. She rambled on about things Grissom had done and why she wanted to get back at him. It became increasingly hard for him to focus on her words. They started running together in an imperceptible jumble to Nick's ears. But he had figure out what she was planning. If Grissom was in danger, he'd do whatever he could to keep him out of it.

"Who… are you…" He finally strung together a sentence, but even that was a monumental effort.

"Nick! You disappoint me. Of all the people, I certainly thought you'd have it figured out by now. You're a very perceptive guy. Doesn't your boss ever tell you that?" She paused, probably waiting for some kind of reaction, but she received none. "Well he's going to wish he did. Maybe it'll, I don't know… eat away at him for years to come, hmmm?"

Nick absently tugged on his cuffed hands but remained silent.

"The death of Douglas Mason will not be in vain, Nick. I swear to God it won't."

It clicked then. As she continued mumbling about her seemingly palpable hatred of his boss, Nick's mind connected back to a corner of cases he thought had closed off for good. If Paul Millander's – Judge Mason's – widowed wife was out for revenge, there was no way this could end easily. Nick wanted to chastise himself for being so open to her this past week, but realized that was just who he was – just like _who he was_ may be his only way of figuring an exit strategy from this mess. He was a resourceful guy. He could think of a—

_God._ He squeezed his eyes shut as tightly as he could and tried not to cry out as another ache ripped through his body. This complicated matters.

"What do you think, Nick? You wanna take odds on your boss finding us soon? I'm sure that good for nothing…"

Nick hardly heard the rest of her ramblings. She was talking more to herself now, anyway, mumbling like a drunken zombie.

Sickened by her venomous diatribe, he hoped Grissom wouldn't fall into her traps. Then he surrendered to oblivion once more.

* * *

Gil Grissom wasn't prone to telegraphing his emotions. Right now, to an outside observer, he probably seemed no more worked up than one became riding to 7-Eleven. Even Warrick, whose white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel betrayed his current state of mind, probably had no idea how on edge the supervisor was. The Paul Millander case caused him all kinds of hell for the better part of two years. It was bad enough having been played so meticulously by that man, but now one of his guys was in the middle of it. This thing… with the wife. It came completely out of left field… odd, because left field is usually where Grissom lived. No one else at the lab had ever seen Mrs. Mason… it was very much his fault for not catching what was so painfully obvious to him now. 

Coming back out of his thoughts, Grissom noticed that they were nearing Mrs. Mason's house, or at least the address she provided on the information sheet. Police lights flashed in stark relief to the dark night sky.

He and Warrick exchanged a brief look before getting out. Closing the door of the Denali, he was immediately intercepted by Brass.

"Not a peep comin' from inside." He nudged with his shoulder and pulled out his gun. "Let's go in."

Grissom and Warrick both unholstered their weapons and moved behind the row of cops.

"Las Vegas Police!" Brass shouted after pounding on the door. No answer.

The unit busted down the locked door and moved inside. They efficiently moved throughout the house looking for signs of the two missing parties. Grissom moved slowly behind them, stopping to look at the lone photograph hanging in the hallway.

It was a family portrait – Paul Millander as Judge Mason, Mrs. Mason, and their son Craig. She looked as the supervisor remembered her from the dinner invite: fair-haired and stereotypically simple. It was a sharp contrast to the stylish, dark look she sported now. A fine film of dust covered the photo except for a thin line running through the middle, as if someone had gently traced a finger over the faces in a nostalgic gesture.

He vaguely heard the directive shouts of the officers around him as they clamored through the house.

"Gil, they're not here."

He looked up at Brass, but found his gaze traveling over the Captain's shoulder, down the hall to the kitchen table. Grissom knew they weren't in the house – there, sitting on the table, was all the proof he needed.

He elbowed his way past Brass, ignoring the other man's inquiries. Snapping on a glove, he picked up the agonizingly familiar rubber hand in disgust. "Here's our Millander print." He put the prop back on the table and noticed a folded piece of paper had fluttered to the floor.

Grissom and Brass exchanged a glance, and the supervisor quickly reached down and snagged the object. He straightened back up, looking over to his right and spying Warrick scanning through the browsing history and Internet logs of the old Dell in the corner. He turned the other direction and saw Catherine and Sara trying to get the voicemail to play on the phone. Grissom figured it was better this way – it was against him that this woman apparently held the king of all grudges – he could tackle this note alone. After unconsciously taking a deeper breath, he began to read.

_It's about time you start showing your game, Dr. Grissom. It's bad enough your crime lab even let me get that job. Isn't there a bit of irony lurking in your less than stellar background checks?_

_But nevermind that, let's get back to you. You couldn't just leave us alone. You couldn't just eat at our table, enjoy our company, and then go back to your lab where you belonged. You saw how happy we were, how normal we were. So let me ask you this: was it worth it? Did you receive the same investigative closure as you get with other cases? Are _you _happy now? _

_It's been a slow and agonizing two years. Do you know what it's like having your family taken from you? Don't try and tell me you don't have one. You may be married to your job, but I've been watching you long enough to notice how your team functions. You're a family, even if your anti-social, independent nature screams against it. So let me tell you this. Even when a portion of your family is taken away… nothing is ever the same again. You'll find out soon enough, though. I bet you're wondering where your boy is. Just know that he's experiencing his own brand of "slow and agonizing." _

_Now it's time to follow the evidence. I trust you're proficient enough to find us soon, but then again you have been rather disappointing so far. I want you to be able to join us so that I can show you just how important family is to me. I've been waiting a long time for this. _

_Try not to let me down, yeah? God knows you've already let Nick down. _

He let the note fall from his hand and said nothing.

* * *

TBC, and hopefully much faster this time. 


	7. Chapter 7

Requital 7 of ?

Hey kids. This part ended up being pretty long so I chopped it in half. So the good news is, I'll probably have part 8 up tomorrow. Thanks for the feedback.

Notes 'n stuff in Ch. 1.

* * *

The sparse Nevada landscape flew by as the blue Cadillac sped up US-95. 

She adjusted the mirror to check on Nick; the guy hadn't made a peep since they passed out of North Vegas. Pity. She rather missed getting him all worked up. He was an easy one to play. In fact, they all were.

Juliette assumed the BOLO was out on her '98 blue Dodge Caravan… too bad it was sitting back in her garage. Did they think she was an idiot? Apparently. She lightly caressed the leather-covered steering wheel of the swank Cadillac. It hadn't been driven since she moved it from Mulberry to Vegas. Doug loved driving his car… all throughout the Nevada wastelands, looking for his "bargains." She smiled wanly at the bittersweet memory.

A familiar sign was fast approaching in the distance and Juliette read its quaint, wooden painted planks with a twinge of longing. _Welcome to Mulberry. _Easing pressure on the gas pedal, she slowed the car down to the strict, crawling speed limits of town. Although it was a necessary trip to make, being here again gave cause to her convictions. She felt more vindication with each passing mile. This was absolutely the right thing to do… for Doug.

Eventually, she turned into a quiet, secluded self-storage center and advanced past the seemingly endless rows of garages. The further back she drove, the larger and more spread-out the units became. After a few minutes, the receptionist made a hard right into the driveway of the large unit reading "Box #5584." Sparing a glance at Nick before stepping out of the car, Juliette quickly keyed in the door code and waited impatiently as it opened.

She walked past the dusty black Toyota 4Runner and headed for the piles of boxes and furniture. After a few minutes of seemingly fruitless prodding, she dug out a small box containing pictures and a few other objects. Carrying it over to the SUV, she opened the front passenger door and stuck the box on the floor. The receptionist then moved around to the rear of the vehicle and opened the back latch door, revealing a spacious trunk area and a large, heavy object already situated to her liking.

Juliette ran a hand along its smooth, white edge before shutting the door again. Satisfied with the way everything looked, she climbed in the driver's seat and slowly backed up until the SUV was even with the parked Cadillac. Finally, she returned to the Cadillac and opened one of its back doors.

Now for the fun part.

She lightly slapped Nick's cheek, trying to rouse him.

"Nick." No response. "Come on. We don't have time to dick around."

She paused for a beat, trying think of what those obnoxiously good-looking doctors on _ER _would do in this situation. Not the assholes on the show now, mind you, we're talking the glory years here. What she would do to that Clooney in an exam room…

Anyway.

Focusing back to the present, she finally remembered a trick they used. She fisted her right hand with the index finger knuckle sticking slightly out further than the rest and then moved it in circles below Nick's clavicle.

That did the trick; as she lifted her hand away, his eyes slowly opened.

"Let's go Nick. Into the other car." She pulled him up by his still-cuffed hands.

He was too disoriented to refuse or to cause a scene, not that anyone was watching, though. Their storage lot was in a fairly secluded area – those who could afford privacy relished in it. As he stumbled into the back of the SUV, he looked up at her with foggy eyes.

"…Sssar?…"

The receptionist stared at him quizzically. "What?"

"Ssarr…" he said, words slurring together, "Tell Griss n'to worry."

Juliette rolled her eyes. She'd wondered when or if he was going to start hallucinating, but being mistaken for Sara Sidle was a laugh and a half. Giving him a patronizing pat on the shoulder, she couldn't hold back the chuckle in her response.

"I think it's a little too late for that, Nicky dear."

He fell back onto the seat and was out again within seconds.

Juliette felt like whistling as she put the Cadillac in the garage and hopped back in the 4Runner, arranging a map on the passenger seat. If those moron cops talked to her neighbors, everyone would be looking for a shiny blue Cadillac speeding down the Interstate – not a dusty black SUV putzing along the back roads.

She wasn't looking to evade, rather, she just needed to buy some time. Grissom would figure things out just when the time was right.

She pulled out of the storage site and headed towards Good Springs.

* * *

Warrick noticed some odd things. 

Namely, the way his boss had been behaving throughout these latest … developments. Grissom just seemed to be on the verge of implosion. He'd retreated as far within himself as Warrick had ever seen – and for a guy like Griss, that's sayin' something. His boss had barely spoken a word to anyone since reading the letter. Besides that, he was treating the case differently. Of course, it _was_ different, Warrick knew, but Grissom almost seemed determined to fix this himself – he wasn't exactly calling in the National Guard to stand at the border looking for this woman. Probably, he thought, because Mrs. Mason made this so personal, Grissom thought it needed a personal solution. And his boss? Not exactly the world's greatest living expert in "personal" anything.

He glanced over at the subject of his thoughts; Grissom had finally quit reading that damn letter over and over and started combing through Millander's case file for anything relevant. Warrick took a swig of his coffee and ran a hand over his face. Some of the recent history on Mrs. Mason's computer had been erased, so Warrick figured they could find out more if the hard drive was hooked up to lab computers. Archie had been hard at work setting everything up, and seemed almost ready to roll.

"Okay, I've cracked the archives open. You start with the e-mails and I'll take the browsing history."

Warrick put down his coffee. "You got it."

The first e-mail was from a "Crockpot228" and addressed Mrs. Mason as "Sis." He guessed it was from the woman who left the voicemail Catherine and Sara found – Mrs. Mason's sister, who apparently lives in Desert Shores. They left with Brass right away to go question her and maybe even get some answers out of the kid, Craig. But Warrick wasn't counting on anything.

He scrolled through nonsensical junk mail, growing more and more frustrated. Every minute he spent futzing around on this damn machine was another Nick was being subjected to God knows what by that woman.

That woman!

He couldn't believe the malice with which that letter was written. Where does somebody learn to spew such hatred? She definitely had a few screws loose, which made him even more worried for his friend. And Grissom… this was definitely a side of his boss he'd never seen. Back in the house, he'd heard Brass calling Grissom's name; when Warrick looked up, he saw the supervisor just standing with a limp arm dangling and a piece of paper on the floor. Then he made a bee-line for the front door, walked down to the end of the driveway, and just stood there with his hand on his forehead. After Warrick read the letter, he knew why.

He sighed and continued scrolling through the sent and received email folders. So far nothing unusual had turned up. Recipe exchanges, entertainment gossip, and an untold amount of spam. He was just about to read something from her son's school when Archie sucked in a sharp breath.

"What is it?"

Archie's finger continued clicking the mouse as he spoke. "About two weeks ago she spent a good amount of time browsing the United States Plant Database." Warrick looked at the AV tech, knowing there was more coming. "Particularly in the sections about Nightshade."

"Nightshade?" Warrick's brow furrowed. He definitely wasn't expecting that. "But that would make everything taste really bitter. How could he not notice that?"

Grissom, who had just walked over behind Archie, shook his head. "You know how Nick loves his Tex-Mex. It's possible he didn't notice the first time, and then was too sick to notice after that."

Warrick didn't respond, too caught up in what his best friend had to endure, but Grissom continued speculating about the poison.

"Depending on what type she used… black nightshade, pokeweed, belladonna, jimsonweed…" the supervisor trailed off. "We won't know for sure until Greg and Hodges finish with the analysis of the soup."

Warrick was hardly an expert on Nightshade, just knew that it was a family of bitter, poisonous plants easily grown in a variety of areas – including Nevada. He vaguely recalled a case involving jimsonweed from several years back, but knew nothing about the other types.

Grissom still continued his scientific muse out loud. "So much of it is toxic… solanine, atropine, hyoscyamine, scopolamine…"

Warrick jerked back out of his chair and gestured angrily at the screen. "Well none of this is going to matter unless we find him!"

He immediately regretted his outburst – he knew Grissom felt guilty enough. The tall CSI's voice returned back to its normal tone. "Nick's excellent physical condition is going to help, but we still don't know how much she gave him."

He saw his boss eye the letter, still opened on the table top. "Or what she's planning to do next."

An uncomfortable silence fell across the AV lab for a few moments as they considered the increasing seriousness of the situation.

"Guys!"

Both CSIs turned to the lab tech, who had continued working throughout their discussion.

"I've got several visits to MapQuest in the history, including driving directions from Arbor Trace to Mulberry."

Grissom looked encouraged, then slightly confused. "Why would she need directions to her own hometown?"

Archie shook his head. "I don't know, but right after that, she visited the "Store it Up, Lock it Up" website. It's a self-storage facility in Mulberry."

The CSI exchanged a glance with his supervisor; they both knew this was a start.

Grissom was already halfway out the door. "I"ll call Catherine and Brass."

Warrick nodded. "Meet me at the truck in two minutes."

Time to haul ass.

* * *

Catherine stepped up to the front porch and knocked, eyeing the two-story house carefully. 

After she and Sara found a voicemail from Mrs. Mason's sister at the house, they immediately drove the short distance to Desert Shores. She was almost glad to get out of the house and give Grissom some space.

She looked over at the other CSI who was waiting, arms crossed and sporting her typical "game face." On her other side, Jim Brass looked like the proverbial cobra ready to strike, just _willing_ that door to open so he could get down to business.

Finally, a thin, red-headed woman wearing an apron answered the door.

"Excuse me, Mrs… Price?"

She eyed the three of them warily. "Ye—yes?"

"Captain Jim Brass, Las Vegas Police. This is Catherine Willows and Sara Sidle from the crime lab." He held up his badge. "Are you the sister of Juliette Mason?"

"Yes, why? Has something happened to her?"

Catherine and Sara exchanged an annoyed glance.

Brass cleared his throat. "Ah, may we come in?"

They stepped inside the meticulously decorated country home. Not a knick-knack was out of place, and the aroma of freshly-baked bread filled the air. The only thing breaking up Norman Rockwell was the group of irritated cops in the foyer.

She led them into the small living room and everyone sat down.

"When was the last time you talked to or saw your sister?"

"Well, that would have to be when she dropped Craig off…" she twisted the bottom of her apron around in her hands. "I haven't spoken with her since then either, I mean, she works such strange hours at the, um, lab, you know?"

"Yes," Brass responded dryly, "We _know."_

"Why… why are you looking for her? I don't understand. Has she done something wrong?"

"We have reason to believe she has, yes."

Catherine wondered if Brass was going to elaborate. Instead, he just stared at Mrs. Price, eyes narrowed. She'd seen that same look in the interrogation room many times. Jim had a better stare-down than most TV cops. But in this instance, the woman in question just seemed confused.

Catherine figured this was a good time to jump in. "Your nephew Craig is spending the week with you."

"Yes, he's been here for about five days now. Jeffrey's asking if he can stay longer."

"Was there any particular reason for his visit?

"No… he—" Mrs. Price fidgeted in her seat. "He says he likes it better over here than his house. I think he's still having a hard time with—"

Brass held up his hand, interrupting. "We're gonna need to talk with him right now."

"Well they're at… at school now. I'd have to—"

The shrill ring of Catherine's phone broke the uneasy silence.

"Excuse me." She stepped back into the foyer.

"Hey, Grissom?"

"Cath, we found a bunch of stuff on her computer, including where they may have gone. I need you guys back here."

"We were gonna talk to the kid."

"Have Sara do it… send Vega with her. You and Brass meet us in Mulberry."

"You think they went there?"

Catherine looked back down the hall at Mrs. Price, who now appeared to be crying.

"Just get there. Call me back from the road."

"Okay." Catherine took a breath. "Listen… I don't think the sister knows anything. I don't think the kid will know anything. Mrs. Mason plays just like her dead husband – way out in front."

"No kidding."

And the line went dead.

* * *

The slam of a car door brought Nick back to full awareness. 

He squinted, puzzled at the feeling of a thick, scratchy blanket covering him from just under his nose all the way past his feet. Trying to sift back through hazy memories, he barely recalled that it wasn't out of charity; rather, it was for self-preservation. Juliette's self-preservation.

_They stopped driving. A door opened. The smell of gasoline. A blanket tossed on him, completely obscuring his form. A voice outside. No, two voices. Friendly._

"…_usually don't get much business way out here…"_

"…_heading on a day trip down to Good Springs… hear there's a nice antique shop…"_

"… _a good day, ma'am…"_

And then nothing again.

Did she really drive them all the way down to Good Springs? Nick could have sworn she was headed for Mulberry again, but then everything seemed so confusing. He pulled at his cuffed hands and sighed in frustration. Helpless was not his nature. Just because he had the most rotten-awful luck in the world didn't mean he had to sit around and wait for his demise. 'Rick would even call him on that. Call… _call._ _That's right!_ Nick felt a surge of relief. It wasn't MacGyver with a paper clip, but it was good enough for him.

He gritted his teeth and slowly moved his cuffed hands down to his right jeans pocket. Somehow maneuvering his index and middle fingers of one hand, he was able to barely grip the razor-thin cell phone and pull. After several tries, it finally fell onto the seat beside him.

He paused, breathing hard. Nick couldn't believe how much effort such a simple task took. He was already so tired, but Mrs. Mason could be back at any time. He moved his hands down further and angled the phone into one hand. His arms and fingers felt weak and they shook slightly, but he held on fast. Slowly moving his arms toward his head, he dropped the phone right in front of his face on the seat cushion. Nick then pressed what he prayed were "2" and "send," which would automatically dial Grissom's cell phone.

Nick tried tilting his head forward and was able to just make out the familiar ringing sound. His boss, predictably, picked up right away.

"Nick?"

"…Gr…" He decided trying to say the supervisor's name was only wasting both time and energy. Grissom's voice was unnervingly frantic.

"Nicky! Nick, are you there?"

Nick's eyes closed on their own accord. This was a lot harder than he thought it'd be. He suddenly felt like he was outside his own body… and… couldn't remember why he had to call his boss. What details did he know? He swallowed and willed himself to remember. Griss was depending on him.

Suddenly a name popped into his head, and decided he had no choice but to trust his instincts and go with it. He opened his eyes again, took a shuddering breath and hoped his boss's altered hearing was in full, working order.

"P… Pete…" He licked his lips, trying desperately to make his voice stronger. His mouth was so dry that it was hard to ground anything out. "Walk… err."

"What? Nick?"

"Pe…"

"Pete Walker?"

Exhausted by the effort, Nick panted harshly, completely wiped out. He hoped – no, he _knew _– Grissom would make sense of whatever he was trying to relay, because right now Nick had no damn idea. The Texan's eyes fluttered closed with his boss still on the line.

* * *

TBC (pretty soon?) 


	8. Chapter 8

Requital 8 of ?

Here's other half of the last chapter, as promised. Or I guess you could call it the next chapter. Though I don't know about Ch.9 coming out this fast. Yow. Thank you thank you so much for your feedback. I really do appreciate you taking a minute to tell me what's up.

Notes 'n stuff in Ch. 1

* * *

Grissom's mind had been a constant cavalcade of details, ideas and theories over the drive as he tried desperately to piece together the situation. It was a foreign feeling, this… relying on his gut more than science. Science was his touchstone, and the past few days he felt like a forgotten dinghy boat in the middle of the stormy Atlantic. For some reason he wasn't sure science would help find Nick. 

He focused back in the present and noticed a sign approaching in the distance: _Welcome to Mulberry._

Feeling slightly queasy all of the sudden, he figured a more fitting sign might read "Welcome to Hell." It really wasn't much of a stretch considering the events that transpired the last time he was in this town… and where that had eventually led them.

"Alright, Griss," Warrick started, "where am I goin'?"

He looked down at the piece of paper he had unconsciously crumpled in his sweaty hand throughout the drive and tried to flatten it out against his leg. The supervisor squinted at the hastily written directions.

"Go through the next two lights and then turn left on Chambers."

His colleague said nothing, eyes fixed on the road ahead; he noticed Warrick's white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel had made another appearance.

Brass and Catherine had caught up to them at some point during the trip. Grissom briefly turned around to make sure they were still following. "Okay. Now hang a right here."

The Denali barely slowed down as it turned the corner and neared a rickety old orange sign that boasted the 'most storage space in town.'

"Here it is – to the right."

Grissom looked back down at the paper as his colleague drove past row after row of garages. "The owner said the Masons have rented #5584 for years. It's all the way in the back."

Finally reaching their destination, Warrick pulled into the gravel driveway and both CSIs exited the truck silently. They waited for Brass and Catherine to join them before approaching the garage together.

"Warrick, go ahead and check the perimeter."

He nodded at his boss and moved around the side, as Brass unholstered his weapon and Grissom entered the owner's universal code into the door key.

The door creaked and slowly ascended – Brass sighed. "I found our blue Caddie."

The detective slowly walked forward with his gun drawn. "Las Vegas Police!" He walked to the back and checked behind the car and around the piles of furniture. "Nobody's home."

No one seemed surprised. Grissom snapped on a glove and entered the garage. He figured she'd probably ditch that car anyway. "So she stole one, or, more likely, she had another stored in here."

He opened both driver-side doors and Catherine did the same on the opposite side. Nothing was left on the back seat, but he noticed what looked like a half-dried puddle of vomit on the floor.

"Hope the kid puked on her."

Grissom turned his head slightly and saw Brass looking over his shoulder. He found himself oddly comforted by the captain's characteristic wryness.

He and Catherine moved simultaneously from the back seat to the front, and immediately both noticed a piece of paper lying among granola bar crumbs on the floor.

_God. Another note._

He almost willed it to vanish into thin air, but also knew it might give an idea of where Nick is. Catherine gave him a supportive look, waiting for her friend to make the next move. His eyes returned a measure of thanks in the same unspoken language they'd learned to use long ago.

Grissom reached for the note and unfolded it slowly, immediately noticing it was written in meticulous cursive rather than being word-processed.

_Hey! Isn't this fun? It's like follow the bread crumb trail. You thought I ran home, huh? Well, good guess, but I'm afraid you're not quite correct yet. But I suppose you're doing alright if you made it here… then again you can't be too proud of yourself -- you're still missing something, right? He would say 'hi,' but he hasn't exactly been talkative lately...  
_

_You know, come to think of it… you really didn't even have to come to Mulberry. I just figured it would bring back great memories for you, yeah? I know it does for me._

_So where to next, Evidence Man? Surely it's time for you to go screw up someone's life just so you can solve a case, right? Go and study your bugs and your muddy boot prints… I'm sure you'll find Nick under one of them, but I can't promise he'll still be alive. _

_P.S. Just know that when you do finally figure it out, I wouldn't bring the cavalry with you. The last thing we want is some moron in riot gear waving a machete during our tête-à-tête… you know, with the innocent bystanders and such. I wouldn't want your guilty conscience to take another hit. You might develop a complex or something.  
_

He handed the note wordlessly to Catherine.

She read it quickly and looked back at Grissom. "You think she's lying? I mean where else would she go besides Mulberry?"

"Everything she's done so far has been with very specific reason. And it has all related to Millander or her life after his death. And this is where they lived… why not stay here somewhere?"

Brass finished reading the letter for himself, then spoke up. "Maybe they had other property in the area?"

Catherine considered the idea for a moment. "I'll go over to their old house – I know they owned another piece of property right next to it. Maybe she held onto it."

Grissom felt uneasy, but agreed anyway. "Jim, you go along with her. Warrick and I can stay here and see if there are any more surprises. I also want to talk with the storage owner to see if he noticed any other vehicles pulling out of here this morning."

He watched his two friends leave and hoped they'd find something constructive.

* * *

So much for that. 

A couple hours later found Catherine returning empty-handed and Warrick buried in piles of papers and yard sale junk. Brass was across the way talking to another garage renter.

"Griss," Warrick called from his position behind the back of the Cadillac. "I finished going through her trunk. All these binders of notebooks are meaningless."

The supervisor didn't answer. He was pouring over the note again trying to find a hidden meaning… a clue… something. Anything. He felt a sudden tap on his shoulder and looked up to find Catherine standing over him.

"I think we're hitting a dead end here, and Sara said that Craig doesn't know anything. I'm going to call Archie and see if he got anything else off the computer."

Grissom wasn't ready to admit defeat with the note yet, but was frustrated enough to agree with her.

"I can also call back the—" She stopped when the supervisor's cell phone went off.

"Could be Greg with the tox analysis."

Grissom unclipped his phone and glanced at the caller ID, his eyes growing wide. He almost dropped the phone in his haste to press the 'talk' button.

"Nick!"

From the corner of his eye, he saw Catherine's hand shoot over her mouth and Warrick bound over from the other side of the garage. He covered his other ear with his left hand and strained to hear, but so far nothing came through but static and heavy breathing.

"Nicky! Nick, are you there?"

His CSI was trying to tell him something but couldn't seem to get the words out. Grissom tried to sound encouraging without betraying his panic. It wasn't really working.

"What? Nick?"

It sounded like a name…_ Pete… Pete Wa…_

He thought back to combing over the file...

"Pete Walker?"

Grissom thought he heard Nick correctly, but wished he could get some sort of confirmation. Or anything else, for that matter.

"C'mon, Nick, talk to us."

He pressed the phone harder into his ear, as if that would somehow change the muffled static back into Nick's voice. But the line changed to dead silence and then beeped, indicating the call had been dropped or that Nick hung up.

"Damn," he swore, replacing the phone on his clip. He turned to face his two colleagues.

Warrick stood with his arms crossed, chin awkwardly resting in one hand; he was positively beside himself with anxiousness. It was an unsettling contrast to his trademark cool-headed manner. Catherine looked at him with eyes he hadn't seen since Lindsey got trapped in that flooding car. If this 'case' hadn't proven the true human frailty of his hard, scientific team – himself included, he thought, admittedly – he wasn't sure what could.

"He said a name, 'Pete Walker.' And that was it."

Catherine's brow furrowed. "That sounds familiar."

Warrick nodded. "Yeah… hey, wasn't he the—"

Grissom suddenly remembered. "—third person Millander killed? Yes, he was."

The supervisor's mind raced. _Where are you going with this, Nick? What am I supposed to see? _His brain began trying its encyclopedic retrieval of anything remotely relevant from that case.

Catherine addressed the other pressing issue. "Well how did he sound, at least?"

"Not good. He had trouble getting those two words out."

Warrick stalked around in a circle, throwing his hands in the air. "Of course he didn't sound good! We've gotta get to him, now!"

Catherine put her hand on Warrick's arm and he sobered slightly. "I'll call Archie back at the lab and see if he can get the cell provider to try tracing the location of Nick's outgoing call."

If her words appeased Warrick, Grissom didn't notice. He was scrambling back through the case file in his head again.

_Come on… come on. Pete Walker. Pete… _

Suddenly, the realization hit Grissom like a proverbial ton of bricks.

_Atta boy, Nicky._

"I don't need a trace."

Grissom stared straight ahead, his mind flashing back to a rainy night over two years ago.

"I know exactly where they went."

* * *

Her dress-booted steps echoed loudly as she walked around of the old, abandoned warehouse; Juliette marveled at its filthy walls as if they displayed all the splendor of the stained-glass panels at the National Cathedral. In her mind, though, that wasn't too far off: this did feel like a holy place… a place where she'd finally get her own resurrection of spirit… a place where she'd deliver her final requital. 

The scant light provided by thin, horizontal windows near the ceiling had dissipated from the steadily darkening sky. The receptionist smiled as the familiar _pings_ began sounding off the rusty roof, steadily growing in intensity.

_Rain._

It was a rare occurrence in these parts, and a coincidental, thrilling garnish to her main course, if you will. _And oh, she will._ It was as if Doug himself was helping with the minutest details.

Now, to bring in the guest of honor.

Walking back outside, she stopped momentarily and raised her face to the heavens, relishing in the fresh rainfall. She closed her eyes and ran both hands through her rapidly soaking hair like a bad actress in a shampoo commercial. Soon, she would be free. Doug would be free. Finally.

Nearing the parked SUV, she pulled Nick's gun out of her waistband and opened the back door.

"Okay Nick, up and at 'em."

He appeared to be just as she left him, except…

The blanket had been pushed to halfway down his chest, and…

Oh.

That piece of _shit._

She'd just assumed Nick carried one of those bulky, walkie-talkie-esque flip phones that all his colleagues seemed to have, and that he'd left it back at the lab. But the one that lie on the seat next to his face was so razor thin that she didn't realize it was in his pocket this whole time.

"And just what the hell do you think you're doing?"

Grabbing the phone, she quickly accessed the last outgoing call. _Figures._

"So you called for Daddy, huh? Why not 911?"

Juliette squeezed it in her hand, wishing she could break into a hundred pieces like one of those cheesy movie villains.

"Did you actually think that would help? C'mon Nick, where is he?"

Apparently Nick had gotten really good at ignoring her, and she'd had enough of it. She looked at the gun in her other hand, only now realizing she had no idea how to use it. But somehow, just holding it made her feel incredibly powerful. It was almost like a drug. The power surged through her and she shoved the cold barrel against his head.

"I said get up!"

No response.

"Fine. You wanna play like this?" She was not gonna take this crap. She flung the phone onto the muddy driveway, then stuck the gun back in her waistband and grabbed Nick by his arms, grunting as she dragged his heavy body backward. He slid down the edge of the open doorway and landed noisily in the fresh mud. Juliette was seething – he still hadn't twitched an eyelash.

She kicked her booted toe into his rib cage. "You wanna call your friends some more?"

Another kick.

"Huh?"

Another kick.

"Huh, Nicky?"

Breathing hard, she stopped and heard a slight moan escape from his mouth, but he never really woke up. Hmm, turns out he was almost done. And good timing, too. Even without the pitiful call for help, she knew Grissom would arrive soon. She grinned as the rain fell harder.

Time to set the stage.

* * *

TBC 


	9. Chapter 9

Requital 9?

**A/N:** We're getting really spoilery for Identity Crisis (and, I guess, Anonymous and the Pilot) now. I'm not worried about ruining it for you (come on, 4-5 years ago!) as much as you being lost and confused if you've never seen it. Again, I recommend www.crimelab.nl for transcript brush-up if you'd like to read this without scratchin' the ol head. Okay, no more talking. Enjoy.

Notes 'n stuff in Ch.1. Thanks as always for the reviews.

* * *

"Absolutely not." 

Catherine was certain her friend had finally gone round the bend.

"Gil, you are not just waltzing in there alone. This woman has been playing you for weeks. She poisoned and kidnapped a member of the Las Vegas Police Department and you think she's going to let you just walk in and out unscathed?"

Grissom seemed to be considering her words, but as per usual, was a difficult read.

"Catherine, this is about _me_. I won't have anyone else hurt because of this woman." He yanked the note out of his pocket, pointing hastily. "I refuse to put anyone else in danger."

Okay, yeah. _Not so much_ with the "considering her words."

"And we refuse to let you just walk into the lion's den!"

"Fine. Then what do you propose? You read the note. That postscript was cryptic. She basically warned me to come in alone, 'or else.' Are you willing to risk Nick's life?"

Catherine should have been insulted at the implication that she would risk Nick's life more than it already was, but she had to get through to him somehow. "Gil, are you even sure they're at the warehouse? I mean, Nick said a name… and he's hardly lucid. You know certain types of nightshade can cause hallucinations. He may not even have known what he was saying."

"I think you underestimate Nick. He knew exactly what he was doing. I trust him. They're at the warehouse."

Catherine knew in her heart that it made sense, but still couldn't tell if Grissom was being driven by fear. "Emotional Grissom" was an animal she rarely had to deal with, and wasn't sure the best method of reeling him back to logic. If they ended up being at the warehouse, she didn't want him going in there unprotected.

Her friend continued his outward muse. "She wants to be found. She wants this confrontation, whatever it is. It's my fault Nick's there. He's my responsibility. If I have to play by her rules, then so be it."

"Well right now all we're doing is wasting time," Warrick said, digging his keys out of his pocket. "You guys wanna fight over the best way to storm the castle? Fine. But standing around in Mulberry is doing Nick no good."

Brass, who was finally caught up on the situation, jumped in before the other two CSIs could respond. "I'm with 'Rick. Let's get on the road. I'll make some phone calls."

Grissom tried to protest. "I'm not—"

"Save it, Bug Man. You're flying without a parachute. We're doing this the right way. Start drivin'."

Catherine almost smiled as she climbed in the truck. Jim Brass was a godsend.

* * *

Finally crossing into the dry shelter of the warehouse, Juliette dropped Nick's arms and almost collapsed to the floor, spent. 

It took some very spirited dragging to get his limp body all the way inside, but eventually she accomplished her goal. Both of them were soaking wet and covered in mud, but she didn't seem to mind; besides, there was much more to get done. Just thinking about Grissom's impending arrival gave her the strength of ten men.

Leaving Nick sprawled out on the floor, she walked back outside to the 4Runner and moved it all the way up the driveway so the trunk was against the warehouse door. Now came the tough part. The receptionist opened the back door and carefully maneuvered the large, smooth object until it was easing out the trunk and down towards the building's opening. Grunting as her muscles stung with exertion, she tried to lower it without losing her grip and dropping the heavy porcelain completely.

Her patience was rewarded as it met the ground with nothing more than a soft clang; she was able to repeat the process with the object's back half and achieved the same success.

Pausing to give her arms and back a break, she spared a glance at Nick's still unmoving form. That boy really did have the best timing in the world.

Juliette hoped the noise this would surely create wouldn't rouse him, though she doubted it would. She crouched behind one end and pushed, creating the most God-awful squeaking noise as it slid along the floor. Finally, she got it situated to her liking and stepped back. The claw-foot bathtub was just a cheap replica, much smaller than most, but it would serve its purpose well.

All this effort…

No, she wouldn't even go there. Of course it was completely worth it. Finally after all these months she'd get her payoff. Now it was up to Grissom to follow his little evidence trail and show up. The receptionist had to admit that she _was_ a pretty creative woman. A trail of dead cockroaches would've just been way too mundane. In fact, this crap was good enough for a television miniseries -- and it'd definitely get more ratings then any lame ass Amy Fisher special.

She walked over to Nick and took his chin in one muddy hand.

"Nick."

His eyes fluttered for a moment, but never opened. Then again, she'd expected that. Juliette wasn't sure how long it would take, but the Internet had given her various estimates.

Botany had been one of Doug's loves. Between that and bargain-hunting, he always had something to do when he wanted to de-stress from long days in court. In such, he'd stored dried containers of hundreds of different kinds of plants and herbs over the years. She never really knew what he kept them for, but was pleased to find a few potentially lethal substances in those containers. Well, considering the, er… _adventurous _life her husband led, it's no surprise he grew his own poison. What a talented husband she has! Had.

_Had._

She looked back at Nick and smiled at his lack of response.

"Yeah, I didn't think you'd help. Kinda hoping you wouldn't anyway." She paused for a moment. "You know, Nicky, you and I make a great team. You always know what I need ahead of time. And then you're just so damn cooperative! I bet you were a teacher's pet…" She stopped again. "More like supervisor's pet. Still can't get that approval from the old man, hmmm? Too bad. I would have given you a great rec."

The decision to poison him was methodical and purposeful. She hadn't just been blowing smoke up Grissom's ass in that note – she wanted every bit of 'slow and agonizing' for all parties involved. Nothing could ever trump the personal hell of her last two years, but she supposed slowly wasting away over the course of a week was good enough. It would be Grissom suffering for years to come, though, when neither she nor Nick would be around to witness it. That was the true victory.

Juliette unlocked his handcuffs and smirked at the chaffed, red rings around his wrists. Talk about pointless energy-wasting… but then he hadn't really been thinking straight. _Her bad._

She then stripped the hooded sweatshirt over his head and carefully peeled away the black t-shirt he wore underneath.

"Shoo," she let out a low whistle. The entire right side of his ribcage was bruised from her earlier torments. "Gotta watch out for that right boot, Nick. Where are those reflexes?"

Ah well.

Now...

Looking from Nick to the tub, she tried to amass the easiest way of getting him inside.

She lifted up the unconscious man's torso against the side of the bathtub and then lifted his legs up, unceremoniously dumping him over the side. She ran her sleeve across her forehead. He was a lot heavier than he looked. And the wet, muddy jeans didn't help any.

Leaving him sprawled awkwardly in the bathtub, she went back to the SUV for a couple of last items. She quickly rifled through the small box on the floor of the passenger seat and found what she was looking for, then returned to Nick's side.

Unfurling the small pocket knife, she held Nick's left hand in hers, palm up. The receptionist carefully watched his face as she sliced the blade down the length of his palm, waiting for any signs of awakening. Seeing his eyes move slightly, she gripped the knife in a more threatening manner and waited. His eyes opened, but stared unseeingly and shut again after a moment. She sighed in relief – it was likely he thought he was dreaming the entire time. Or worse.

The wound wasn't particularly deep, but a good amount of blood began flowing freely from the gash. Juliette held Nick's hand directly above the center of his chest, allowing the blood to pool onto his torso and drip downwards. Just like being an artist, she mused, moving the bleeding hand slightly to control the path of the flow.

When everything looked according to plan, she placed the CSI's now slightly-clotting hand on the outside of the far edge of the tub, while his right arm was out the door-side next to his gun and the small, black tape recorder.

Sure, it would have been much easier just to shoot him. Messier, too. And she'd have to figure out how to work that thing. But she wasn't in it for easy. No… not when mind games were this much fun.

The receptionist almost squealed as she took in the sight of her masterpiece. Douglas himself couldn't have done better! Okay, he could. But wouldn't he ever be proud…

She dashed outside, disappointed that the rain had tapered to a light drizzle, and moved the SUV back down the driveway. After leaving the vehicle unlocked, she retreated back inside the warehouse and sat in a dark corner to wait.

Your move, Dr. Grissom.

* * *

"At least wear this." 

Grissom remained silent as Catherine fastened the Kevlar vest around his chest like he was an impatient child waiting to play in the snow. He knew this was an entirely pointless exercise, as he seriously doubted Mrs. Mason planned to end her twisted game by shooting him. But he wasn't in the mood to fight the other CSI about the situation any longer than he already had.

He looked at the group amassed around him and sighed. A legion of police backup had showed up per Brass's request, and it appeared, Grissom noted with disdain, that Sara had tagged along. Enough of his people were already in danger up here and he'd hoped that Sara stayed back at the lab. But he wasn't surprised. Nick was well-liked by… pretty much everyone he'd ever come in contact with. That kind of genuineness brought a sort of reciprocal loyalty. He could probably be elected mayor with little effort, but Grissom knew Nick despised politics just as much as his boss – albeit for different reasons. Grissom just wasn't good with people, wheras Nick would never want to please one group at the expense of another… especially those less fortunate. In fact, he—

"Grissom."

Catherine was giving him a look that landed somewhere between pity and concern.

"Sorry. I was just thinking."

"I said there's got to be an easier – not to mention safer – way to do this."

"Cath, we're not doing this again."

He turned away from her and looked up the muddy path towards the warehouse. Grissom had interpreted Nick correctly: they had to be inside. The black SUV, which they had earlier discovered was registered to Mrs. Mason, sat in plain view about a hundred feet from the door. Sara and Warrick had already started combing through it – he wasn't exactly sure what they were looking for – while some of the cops had circled the perimeter of the site. The supervisor had convinced Brass that there was no way this could end without him going inside – alone. The captain had only acquiesced after Grissom agreed to wear an earpiece and microphone. They also discussed a code word he could use to signal for police backup to enter the warehouse.

In other words, he was absolutely to his wits end. If Mrs. Mason wanted this to be like a shootout at high noon in the Old West, then by damn everyone else needed to duck behind their saloon doors and stay out of his way. But there was protocol to be followed.

And protocol wouldn't save Nick any more than he'd tell Greg to crank up the punk rock.

So he let them dress him in protective gear. He let them outfit him with electronic communicators. He let them heed their warnings and give their strategic advice. He let them go in one ear and out the other.

It's not that he was being intentionally ornery, Grissom knew. This woman was too cunning, too manipulative, and too sadistic for them to think that any police operation would be of help. Why couldn't anyone else understand that? The letters were for _him._ Taunting him, egging him on.

"Alright, you're set. Go get our guy. Remember, we're right outside and ready to come in."

He looked over at Brass, who gave him a pat on the shoulder and a little nod. Grissom said nothing in return, just turned and walked up the mucky driveway. The rain had finally let up, but the wet surroundings were all too familiar of his last visit to this site. He slowly approached the warehouse door, shoes slopping through the thick, wet mud. Finally a safe distance from his colleagues, he stripped the earpiece and microphone from his person, tossing them into a nearby puddle. Grissom didn't notice their horrified expressions.

This was his problem… his responsibility. Just like it was also his responsibility to keep the rest of his team away from her. As much as they wanted to help, they also didn't understand. If anything else happened to Nick, he'd never forgive himself.

He stood at the door and swallowed, reaching into his pocket for his flashlight and noting the reassuring weight of the gun at his hip. The entomologist would probably never admit to anyone how frightened he was at that moment. Rarely in his life had he ever felt outsmarted by anyone, but the last several days he knew she was constantly one-upping him. His only comfort came in the fact that Nick had enough guts and sense left to contact him. Mrs. Mason was wrong. He hadn't let his CSI down, and he sure as hell wasn't going to now.

Gently pushing on the rusted door, he waited as it creaked open. Grissom took a step forward, his hand suddenly sweaty and gripping the MagLite.

It was almost pitch dark inside the warehouse, and he paused so his eyes could adjust. It was exactly how he remembered it from over two years ago. Grissom wondered how to proceed. Should he call out? Should he wait for her to make the first move? Should he—

_Oh, God._

He didn't even have to turn on his flashlight; the realization at what he saw slammed him like a physical blow. There, in the inky darkness ahead, sat a lone, claw-foot bathtub.

_No. Nonononono._

Grissom's eyes were just able to trace the outline of a very familiar figure – his face was turned towards the door, his eyes closed, and his slack body devoid of life. Blood ran a telling path down the center of his bare chest.

An arm hung limply over the side, hand resting near a gun. A tape recorder silently taunted him from the floor.

A bathtub. A gun. A tape. A body.

Nick.

Just like Royce Harmon.

Just like Stuart Rampler.

Just like Pete Walker.

Just like Paul Millander.

The roaring in his ears was only eclipsed by the weight of a thousand pounds on his chest. His waking nightmare… in living color.

Grissom suddenly couldn't draw a breath, but found he didn't want to, anyway.

She'd won.

* * *

TBC 


	10. Chapter 10

Requital 10 of ?

Hey kids. Sorry for the lag. Holiday weekends can be very distracting ;-) Hope everybody had a nice one. Back to the grind...

Feedback is great, and using the new reply feature is fun, too.

* * *

It couldn't have been more euphoric if God himself had streamlined a heavenly beam of light upon that spot, she thought. 

There were a few times in life when a person dreams of another's reaction. Asking for a hand in marriage. Informing a loved one of an impending birth. Witnessing the culmination of vengeance won upon an arch enemy's face.

Okay, maybe that last one wasn't completely normal.

But she'd been waiting years for this, and damn if it didn't live up to every expectation in the world.

Gil Grissom was frozen in place like a Beefeater in front of Buckingham Palace.

He stared ahead and remained so completely still that she could scarcely tell if he was even breathing. What was running through his head, she wondered? What nightmarish realizations ceaselessly circled his consciousness? Would they drag him into a burden of guilt so heavy he'd never escape? Could he stand to look at another crime scene again… would he be able to detach himself… or would he always see Nick?

God willing, she thought.

Finally, he stepped forward. In reality, it was probably less then a minute. But she figured it was a few hundred lifetimes for the entomologist.

He flicked on his small flashlight and illuminated the bathtub and the man within it. She guessed that's when he finally realized Nick wasn't dead; his gait seemed to pick up a bit, and he kneeled quickly at the side of the tub. She didn't expect him to say anything – his anguished eyes were, in their own way, deafening.

Grissom slowly reached his arm out and touched a shaky hand to the side of his friend's neck, completely oblivious to his surroundings.

"Nicky?" he whispered, but the younger CSI remained limp. "Can you hear me?"

His expression turned puzzled as he took in the blood on Nick's chest. Without hesitation, he traced a couple fingers through what he thought was the source, but found no entry wound. The wheels seemed to be turning now as the supervisor picked up the other man's left hand and examined the gash on his palm.

Juliette watched as he straightened and glanced around, presumably trying to see her, but then he stopped as if suddenly remembering something.

_Ahh, yes. About time._

He bent down near one of the tub's curled feet and picked up the tape recorder. A crackle of static escaped from the small speaker after he pressed 'play,' followed by a very familiar-sounding voice. The CSI's eyes never left Nick as the message played.

_Dr. Grissom! Wow, is it just me, or is there a faint sense of déjà vu in the air? _

She grinned. Despite the terrible acoustics, she didn't sound half-bad.

_Did you ever dream you'd be back here again? I guess seeing is believing, then… or is it? Remember how just a few minutes ago, you thought he was dead? Well you were right. Don't let that silly pulse fool you. I'm sure your ever-assiduous lab rats have already briefed you about nightshade poisoning. But did they tell you what happens when it goes on untreated? I'm sorry to inform you that at this very moment, Nick's vital organs are shutting down. He may be breathing, but he might as well be dead. It should be any minute, now. Bravo on the timing. You know, I wanted to have him make this little exercise more authentic by leaving his own scripted message on here, but gosh, he just didn't seem to be in the mood. Again. Oh well._

Juliette was disappointed at his lack of outward reaction. Grissom was such a damn sphinx.

_So! Now that we've gotten that minor issue out of the way, let me say welcome back to Good Springs and congratulations on following my little footprints. You must be proud having conquered the kind of evidence trail that a bunch of third grade Cub Scouts could decipher before snack time. Are you wondering what happens now? Are you go—_

She watched, surprised, as he hastily thumbed the 'stop' button and flung the recorder back towards the ground. It slid all the way out to the center of the floor, echoing off the bare walls. Thankfully it looked to be in tact – she'd be crushed if her second surprise got spoiled too early.

"Nick!" Grissom's attention was back to the unconscious man before him, who seemed to want no part of being roused. "Come on…"

Well, she'd had just about enough of their pointless, one-sided reunion. Especially if he had the balls to turn off her fun little message.

Stepping out of the darkest shadows, she swaggered over to the pair of CSIs.

"I would have said 'made you look,' but that seemed much too juvenile."

* * *

Grissom's head jerked up at the snide comment. Even the echoing acoustics of the warehouse seemed to be taunting him. He figured she was somewhere close by, but had been too concerned about Nick to give it much thought. He stood up and stared at the tallish figure nearing – her normally flawless work appearance now dirty and disheveled, her typical perky disposition turned cold and vile. 

It took him a few beats to even think about reaching for his gun. What should have been instinct was clouded by his unfamiliar, emotional adrenaline drive. But by that point Mrs. Mason was already standing on the opposite side of Nick, arms crossed and wearing a smug smile.

"Well, aren't you going to say 'hello'?"

Grissom said nothing, too caught up in the stark reality before him. It seemed she had taken her husband's own brand of blatant hubris and tripled it. What this woman had gone at lengths to do, what it was going to come down to… Never before had he encountered a suspect… an adversary… who was this brash, this—

"Not in the mood to talk, I see."

If he were anywhere else right now, he'd probably test his pulse rate just to see how much his doctor would scold him during the next visit. He hoped that despite his inner turmoil he was emitting his usual inscrutable exterior; the supervisor had no desire to surrender any more points to her. Grissom squinted in the murky darkness, just now noticing the pocket knife she coolly twirled around in one hand.

"Well, too bad. I didn't drag your sorry ass all the way out here to have a staring contest."

She squatted down next to the tub, leaning the knife arm on the edge while the other moved forward and brushed a hand against Nick's face. The receptionist pursed her lips and then looked back at Grissom, giving a nonchalant shrug.

He took a step forward, wanting to get her the hell away from Nick, but was apprehensive about what she may do.

"Don't touch him again."

"Or what? You'll sic a giant cockroach on me? I think it's a bit too late for heroics, Dr. Grissom, don't you?"

"I'm here now. Let's just get on with this. What is it you want?"

Juliette gave no indication of hearing his query, instead looking back at her setup.

"Pretty sweet reenactment, hmm? There is, of course, only the slight difference. But I much prefer slow and agonizing to quick and messy, don't you? I guess I sort of got both in anyway."

Grissom didn't answer, his emotions swirling like a mad vortex. He couldn't believe she was getting to him… but she was absolutely right. The poison in Nick's system had been escalating. Greg had called with the preliminary tox analysis and the details were not good. He and Hodges were still trying to determine the specific types, and Grissom swore it wouldn't be for naught. He absolutely had to get his CSI out of here, _now._

She spoke again, as if reading his current train of thought.

"You know, there are some fascinating side effects with this kind of stuff. Are you curious to hear the highlights of our jaunt around southern Nevada?"

The supervisor felt his frustration reaching an unbearable level.

"Why don't you tell me what it is you want so we can just get this over with. _Apparently_ you have some issues with me. Nick was hardly—"

She cut him off as if Grissom hadn't even been speaking. "He rambled quite a bit. Fever, hallucinations… who knows, really. But tell me, do you find it interesting that he mentioned you a lot?"

She paused just long enough to flash a feral grin. "I can't decide if my favorite was when he mistook me for Sidle and told her that you shouldn't worry, or the time he asked you to just forget him… not to come find him."

Grissom refused to be baited by her derision, but couldn't stop the sting that accompanied her words. There was no way this could end here.

"He was such a good little soldier in the Army Grissom… always putting himself first. Always ready to sacrifice. And for what? I'm sure it was all in good conscience. I'm sure he did it knowing you appreciated him… right?"

"Look. I don't see what any of this has to do with you and me."

Mrs. Mason smiled again. "You see, someone in the family always has to get kicked around a bit. He's kinda like the kid who does everything right… the one who brings home straight A's but gets pushed to the side for the sibling with the behavior problems or the demanding social life."

It was becoming increasingly difficult to tune out her words; their purpose only served to exacerbate his guilt. He realized this and knew he couldn't afford to give in. "Every member of my team is an equal and just as important as the other. You can play armchair psychologist all you want. Nick is well above any of your manipulations. And so am I."

"Funny you should say that. I was thinking the same thing. Why should Nick get all the fun, after all?"

He wasn't sure what he was expecting her to say, but that definitely wasn't it. The older man watched as she moved around to the side of the tub, still twirling the knife around in her hand.

"You know what's so great about your team? You're always there for each other. In fact, I'll bet you a free walk out of here that all of them are congregated outside, along with about two dozen police officers. And they're all waiting for some kind of signal from you. Am I right?"

Grissom said nothing; he merely stared back at her, unblinking.

"I thought so. Well, you've gotta be happy with such devotion. Especially since that SUV in the driveway is going to explode at the press of a button. Hey -- then they'll all be _equally_ dead!"

_God._

If his heart could drop any further, it would bust through the floor. But no need to show his cards, he thought, ruefully, as sweat dripped down his neck.

"Listen. I don't have time for more of your mind games. What do you want from me?"

Grissom knew it was a useless question. This was the main act in the feature finale of her power play, and he was the guest star. Nevertheless, she looked genuinely shocked at his apparent skepticism.

"I think it's pretty obvious. I don't want much… merely your full and undivided attention."

"And you don't think you have it?"

She placed a hand over her heart in a sarcastic gesture. "After all we've been through together, Dr. Grissom… I'm hurt. You think I'm bullshittin' you?"

Grissom knew better than to underestimate her – he'd done that enough already. But he still found it hard to believe she'd have the resources to orchestrate something like that.

"Your husband may have been a killer and a judge, but he wasn't an explosives expert. And I don't think you can learn _that_ much online."

Juliette laughed. "Ah, but: _Blame it all on my roots, I showed up in boots…" _

The CSI's expression changed to one of disgust as she crooned a vaguely familiar off-key tune.

"_Cause I got friends in low places…" _Getting no reaction, she stopped singing, instead, laughing manically. "Oh, c'mon! Okay, not a country fan? Well, Nick's gonna need someone to inherit of all his CDs now, so I guess you'll learn it soon enough."

He quashed the urge to blow her away right there. Her malicious references to Nick's condition were quickly pushing him towards the inevitable breaking point. But who knows how she might react to sudden moves…

"Anyway," she continued, "My husband couldn't have lead a double life as a serial killer and a judge for years without having friends in low, or should I say, high places."

Grissom willed himself not to 'go there.' Whoever hooked her up with supplies and information was a twist he couldn't deal with right now.

"And how do you plan on escaping?"

Juliette snorted. "Don't you think you should be worrying about other things, like, say… the soon-to-be 20 dead bodies on your watch?"

She walked to the front of the tub, positioning herself between the two CSIs; Grissom retreated backwards, almost unconsciously. The receptionist gestured with the pocket knife.

"Showtime. Go pick up the tape recorder."

He hesitated, not wanting to turn his back on her. He glanced over at Nick, who was now out of his immediate reach.

"Don't look at him!" She gripped the knife tighter, eyes flashing. "He's already dead!"

Grissom had no desire to wait around and prove the legitimacy of her poker face. This had to stop, and soon. The older CSI considered going for his gun again, but the knife and her proximity to Nick caused him to consider otherwise.

"DO IT!"

He backpedaled until he reached the plastic device. Never breaking eye contact with the receptionist, he picked it up and slowly walked back in her direction. She stepped out a few feet herself, almost meeting halfway, and snatched it from his outstretched hand.

She examined it briefly before looking back at Grissom, satisfied. "I'm glad to see your earlier temper tantrum didn't damage the 'pause' button – you'd have blown your friends up before I got a chance to rib you about it!"

"Mrs. Mason," Grissom paused, realizing this could be his last chance to prevent a disaster. "Listen to me. You were living a lie before. Paul – _Doug_ – could have ended up hurting you. Hurting your son."

She shook her head almost violently. "He would have never done that. He loved us."

"He may have, but he also murdered three people. No matter how close you were, he deserved to be punished for those crimes." Grissom watched as her anger slowly turned towards grief. Maybe he was finally breaking through. "How do you think the families of those three victims felt?"

As quickly as her grief appeared, it changed back to the familiar bitterness. "Don't you dare turn this on him. This is about you and your compulsive need to screw up other people's lives."

_So much for breaking through. _

Suddenly, the smug smile from earlier was back in place. "Remember what you felt like when you found my note in Doug's fake hand?"

His brow furrowed, and he suppressed a shudder as a sudden chill washed over his body.

"Remember what you felt like when you walked through that door and saw Nick?"

He twisted the head of the flashlight in his sweaty palm, his eyes burning behind strained lids.

"Remember what it felt like to see it was a set-up, only to learn you couldn't save him anyway?"

He swallowed thickly, trying to recall a time when his mouth had ever felt this dry.

"Remember that guilt. In fact, prepare to suffocate in it as you waste away, alone."

He already had a taste of that helplessness and wasn't about to let it become a permanent fixture.

Clearing his throat, Grissom finally found himself able to respond. "I think you're sorely mistaken."

"No, I think you are. _We_ were a family. A real, honest-to-God family. Not like this fake shit you have, married to your goddamned job. You'd never know what it's really like. But I'll take what I can get. Maybe the guilt of Nick and the rest of your team will approach half of what I felt. You wanna know what you're here for? I'm returning my hell to you, tenfold. This is my requital."

Her hand gripped tighter on the tape recorder, finger inching toward the 'pause' button.

"Listen, you don't—"

Before he could finish his rebuke, a sudden, sharp crack broke the air and Grissom felt his back slam onto the unforgiving concrete floor. For a moment he wasn't sure if he was actually hit with something or if his body simply reacted to the threat around him. Then he realized it hadn't sounded like an explosion.

Trying to reclaim his bearings, he noticed the judge's wife sprawled face down a few feet from him, a dark stain pooling across her back. Shocked, Grissom's attention flew immediately to his CSI, whose eyes had just fallen closed before the forgotten gun slipped from his outstretched hand and clattered to the floor.

* * *

TBC. 


	11. Chapter 11

Requital 11/11 (Complete!)

And that's a wrap, kids! This was supposed to be two chapters, but I'm serving it up in one giant chunk anyway.

Notes at the bottom.

* * *

Catherine had been well beyond her protocol and decorum boiling point _before_ the sound of a gunshot sent those outside the warehouse into a frenzy.

She exchanged a desperate look with Warrick as they simultaneously reached for their own guns, but were stopped by Brass who gestured for his men to enter the premises.

"Hold up. We go first."

Her fury at Grissom for ditching his comm devices had dissolved into pure fear by this point. By the looks of Warrick, he was thinking the same thing. Gripping her gun, she, Warrick and Sara moved into the warehouse behind the group of cops and were shocked at what they saw. Nothing could have prepared her for the scene before them.

Grissom was kneeling at a sickeningly familiar bathtub setup and putting his coat around a very bloody and unconscious Nick, while Mrs. Mason lie sprawled on the floor with the certain slackness she instantly recognized as death.

Oblivious to the police around them, the trio ran straight for their friends.

Catherine was confused at the sight of Grissom wrapping his coat around Nick's bloody torso but not attempting to stanch the wound. "Gil! What happened? Is he—"

He didn't appear to have even noticed their presence, all his attention focused on Nick. Finally Warrick put his hand on the supervisor's shoulder, causing the older man to almost jump out of his skin. Catherine guessed his ears had still been ringing from the gunshot.

Suddenly, his head shot up and glanced around, almost panicked, as if he just remembered something. He spotted the Captain quickly. "Brass! Get everyone away from that SUV and call the bomb squad – it may be packed with explosives." He stopped and pointed at a tape recorder lying next to the judge's wife. "And there could be a trigger device inside of that."

Catherine found herself unable to wrap her brain around the notion that the vehicle they were just picking through could explode at a moment's notice; instead, she was stuck on the sheer madness of the scene unfolding before her eyes. Who shot her? What had it come down to? What in the hell happened to Nick? Grissom didn't seem to be in the mood for explanation, but then again she couldn't blame him.

"He's not shot… he's…" the supervisor trailed off, looking at his companions. Warrick and Sara stood there gaping, seemingly dumbfounded to the point of inaction.

Grissom seemed to regain his bearings and spoke again, tersely. "We need to get out of here, now. Warrick. Help me."

The taller man had moved around to lift Nick's upper body, while Grissom took the lower. His jeans appeared to be sopping wet and covered with mud. They got him out of the tub and set him on the floor for a minute so Grissom could say something to the officers who would remain at the scene.

Warrick whipped out his cell phone, intending to call for an ambulance. They all knew the nearest hospital was back in Vegas.

Grissom turned back to them and stopped Warrick. "Cath, go get the Denali and bring it up to the door. We don't have time to wait for a bus."

Brass, in between directing the other cops in the warehouse, nodded. "We'll give you a couple escorts – be back in no time. Sara, you come with me."

By the time she was pulling the vehicle around, Warrick and Grissom had already made it to the door with Nick. Leaving the engine running, she hopped out and helped the two men maneuver Nick into the back seat. Then, Catherine climbed into the back, while Warrick drove and Grissom rode shotgun. She situated his upper body so it was lying across her lap with one of her arms wrapped securely over his chest to hold him steady as they lurched forward. The police escorts surrounding them blared their sirens.

She gently held his head with her other hand, just now noticing the nasty bruise running down from his right temple. She ran her fingertips over his sweaty forehead.

"Nick?"

Surprised, she suddenly found him staring back at her.

"Nicky?"

His cloudy eyes were almost black, pupils dilated wide. They skated over her lazily, unseeing.

"Look at me. C'mon. Nicky?"

When they sunk to half-mast, Catherine was determined not to let him fall back under.

"Nick, sweetie, stay awake for me. Please."

She felt like she was talking to Lindsey all the sudden. But it was only natural: Nick looked smaller and younger than ever before.

"Damn it," she cursed softly when he ignored her pleas. She caught Warrick's worried gaze in the rear view mirror and wished she could give some sort of reassurance.

They still weren't even sure what happened. Grissom hadn't said a word since they started driving. But as she took in her colleague's slumped posture, hand holding his forehead, she knew it wasn't going to be anything simple. How that woman managed to orchestrate this entire thing…

Catherine didn't even want to think about what Grissom must have gone though seeing the Millander murder set-up. It took some seriously twisted psyche to pull off something like that, and she was damn glad that woman was dead – no matter how it happened.

She held onto Nick a little tighter and closed her eyes wearily, her spent adrenaline finally catching up with her.

* * *

Warrick clicked the volume button up two more notches on the remote control.

Now, he figured, even the guy four rooms over would probably be able to hear when the Red Raiders scored. He looked at the unconscious figure on the bed.

"You don't know what you're missing out on, bro. Your Techies are up 11 on the 'Horns."

He sighed as Nick, predictably, didn't stir. To say things had been tense around here would be quite the understatement. His friend hadn't moved a muscle for three days.

Hodges had put the call in as they neared the hospital that Mrs. Mason had used a veritable buffet of nightshade. It was as if she couldn't decide which to use so she simply dumped them all in at once. They found traces of jimsonweed and belladonna, along with something that resembled black nightshade, but the results weren't entirely conclusive.

Most of what the doctors said at the onset had gone over Warrick's head. He may be a scientist, but his medical knowledge was pretty limited. Grissom seemed to go along with it, so at least he could trust the idea that they were giving Nick the right treatment. One thing he understood for certain was that his friend had been mere hours from never waking up when he was brought in. Apparently this kind of poisoning is very treatable, but the sheer amount he was given, coupled with the delayed medical attention, could have sent him into a coma and eventually death.

But Warrick absolutely was not going to go there. It was just hard not to let his mind wander as he waited over the past few days.

Thus far, the doctors had mostly worried about renal failure, and Nick was put on dialysis to remove the impurities from his blood. There was also some damage to his stomach lining which they said can be fixed with time and a bland diet. He was constantly hydrated and re-hydrated with various intravenous cocktails. He was poked, prodded, x-rayed and God knows what else. And through it all, hadn't twitched an eyelash.

The doctors said he was improving, at least according to his latest kidney tests, but the only thing Warrick knew is that his best friend still hadn't woken up.

His fever was still replaced by the gray clamminess of his skin. Not to mention a concussion and a mass of size 8 boot prints on his ribcage.

Warrick felt anger churning inside him again at the thought of that woman. He briefly recalled a conversation with Nick and Sara from several years ago after a case with a man killed on an airline. Sara had said she could never take a life, Nick wasn't sure, and Warrick had no qualms about saying 'absolutely, if need be.' There was no question that if Nick hadn't already done it, he'd go finish her off right now. Of course, the comment to his friends was mostly in reference to self-defense. But not now. That's how raw his fury had been… and still was.

He looked back at the TV, glad to see Tech had increased their lead. Running a hand through his hair, he wondered who was coming in to sit with Nick next. It wasn't like him to forget.

Since Warrick had assumed the self-appointed post of primary watchdog, he had a pretty good idea of who visited and when. The times his boss was here, Warrick had never seen him look so haggard. He picked hours to visit when it was most likely that no one else would be around. The supervisor had been here when he came by a few hours ago… just sitting by the bed, elbow on the side table, head in hand. The posture never changed. Warrick figured the only way out for Grissom was Nick waking up and being himself.

Grissom had hardly talked about the incident inside the warehouse. He gave a statement to the day shift CSIs who ultimately processed the scene, but had no desire to discuss anything with the rest of Graveyard beyond the minimal details. Warrick couldn't imagine though, walking into that place and thinking Nick had died just like the rest of Millander's victims. But even the initial sight just had to be—

"Hey, 'Rick."

He looked up as Jim Brass entered the small room. Well, that answered his question, he thought. It was also his cue to leave. Unfortunately, crime didn't stop around Vegas and he had to get back to the lab.

"Jim." Warrick stood up, stretching the kinks out of his back.

The detective looked at the television. "Wow, an upset in the making. He's gonna be pissed he slept through this."

"Don't I know it. He'll probably blame me for not turning it up loud enough."

The younger man lingered by the bed, hesitant to leave.

Brass put a hand on his shoulder and gave a meaningful look.

"Hey. I'll call you."

Warrick simply nodded, grabbing his coat and hoping his shift would be interrupted by good news.

* * *

None of his previous nightmares smelled so sterile.

Nick's mind had been on quite the magical mystery tour of sights and sounds during recent states of consciousness. But somehow, this one seemed different. Besides the odd smell, the lack of blinding stomach pain was a welcomed and unexpected change. But… why the hell did everything else seem to hurt, then?

He sifted back through horrific pain and images, wondering which, if any, were real. But the more he thought about it, the more realistic each became.

_Oh._

_That food… that woman… the car… _

And then nothing.

The last sliver of a real memory he had was trying to call Grissom. He almost didn't want to learn the outcome, but judging by the soft mattress under his body, it couldn't be completely bad.

That's when quiet, familiar voices in the room suddenly penetrated his consciousness.

"Y'know, I was Brian Wilson for Halloween once."

"You were not."

"Hey, I lived in Cali. I surfed. You don't think I'd make a good Beach Boy?"

"Greg, you'd make a much better Monkee."

He willed his heavy lids to open and a couple of very blurry Sara and Greg-shaped figures swam into view. Nick let out an inadvertent groan as the light hit his eyes.

"Uh, oh my God. Nick? Uh, let me, uh…"

He licked his dry lips. "Greggo…"

Wow. Nick could hardly believe that buzzsaw was his voice.

"Take it easy, I'm gonna go get someone."

"Greg? Just press the…" Sara attempted, but their younger friend had already dashed out of the room. "Well, I'll do it."

She hit the call button and smiled at Nick, taking his IV-laden hand in hers.

"About time you graced us with your presence," she smiled. "How do you feel?"

Nick considered how to sum up the feeling of leaden limbs, but gave up. "How do I look?"

Sara rubbed his hand. "Never better."

A petite, red-headed nurse entered the room and smiled at the sight.

"Mr. Stokes, glad to see you're finally awake. I'll go get the doctor."

She passed Greg on the way back out; he looked at the nurse and then back at Sara, blushing.

"I forgot about the…" He gestured to the call button.

"No problem, we got it."

Nick suddenly decided he had to know what happened before the doctor got back and made them leave. He couldn't stand being in the dark any longer, not when his head was finally clear.

"What…" he tried to clear his throat, but his mouth was not cooperating. Didn't they have water around here somewhere?

"You're gonna be fine, Nick. You were lucky." Sara had just assumed he wanted a rundown of his health. Honestly, he could care less. He needed to make sure—

Nick was disappointed as he saw the doctor enter the room and politely ask his friends to leave so he could be examined.

Sara leaned down and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Wow, he must have really had a rough go. "We're gonna go call the lab, Nick. See ya in a bit."

His eyes drooped on their own violation as the doctor talked him through the past three days' treatments, the prognosis, and the tests he was going to perform now. Nick's mind wandered; Grissom wasn't here with the others… why? He was probably disappointed that Nick had been gullible enough to fall for all of that woman's traps. He felt like such an easy target.

Suddenly Nick wanted nothing more than to fall back asleep again, hoping that when he woke up everything would have fixed itself.

* * *

"I swear to God, 'Rick," Nick paused to swing at the softball sailing towards him, "you pop up another one and I'm gonna start callin' you Willie Mays Hayes."

Warrick smirked in the cage to Nick's left. "Yeah, well, this isn't _Major League_, so don't expect me to drop and give you 20 pushups."

Nick laughed as he connected with another swing. "Twenty? Bro, this is a batting cage – it's a machine lobbing 'em right out there, and you've already spoiled three pitches. You should give me a _hundred_."

Saying it felt good to get out of the house would be a gross understatement. Nick, as expected, had been given extended time off work; now that he was feeling more like himself, he was going absolutely stir crazy waiting for the all-clear.

The taller CSI was still trying to defend his less-than-stellar performance thus far.

"Hey, it's been a long winter. Do you think A-Rod hits 30 bombs on the first morning of spring training?"

"I think he remembers how many outs make up an inning."

Warrick shot him a dirty look and popped up yet another pitch.

From the corner of his eye, Nick noticed that his friend had stopped batting and was looking at something out in the parking lot.

"Looks like we're not the only ones who need some practice."

The Texan turned in the direction of his friend's gaze and was surprised to see their supervisor close his door and walk casually up the sidewalk. He immediately felt anxious; he hadn't exchanged more than a few sentences with Grissom ever since he woke up in the hospital three weeks ago. Even then, it was only the standard health and wellness small talk. His boss seemed to have immersed himself in work – but Nick knew that's how he tended to deal with anything in his life. It would probably feel strange for him _not_ to.

"Hey, Gris." Nick offered.

Grissom reached the edge of the cage and leaned against the fence, taking in the appearance of his colleagues and their surroundings.

"Brooks Robinson once said that he never took a ground ball to the face but had a mouthful of fake teeth because of these things," he said, pointing to the old facility.

Nick smiled at the familiarity of the response. Grissom much preferred a random, applicable factoid over a simple 'hello' any day.

Warrick didn't seem as amused. "What in the world did Brooks Robinson need to visit a batting cage for?"

Nick was grateful when the next series of pitches suddenly began. At least he could look distracted. He still hadn't fully come to terms with what happened… he couldn't believe it when Warrick told him everything. He had no memory of shooting her. And he still had no idea how his boss felt… it had put him in a constant state of unease.

It wasn't until he smacked the final ball that he realized his two companions had been speaking quietly with each other the entire time.

He leaned his bat against the fence and stretched out his sore shoulder muscles, still not quite used to using them again. A silence fell over the trio, until Warrick finally cleared his throat and spoke. "Well I think I'm gonna go break this twenty and get some change. I need a couple more rounds in this thing."

Nick wasn't fooled. He'd spent ample time at the cages with the other man and knew Warrick never showed up without enough quarters to last all day. This was Warrick's subtle way of giving the other two space to talk. He was, if anything, perceptive… but also a great friend.

"Better believe it, bro. You looked like Hodges on that last swing."

Warrick scowled at the comment wiped a bit of sweat from his brow. "I'm pickin' up some drinks too. You guys want anything?"

"Yeah, gimme a Waco."

Nick grinned as Warrick rolled his eyes in response. His friend hated when he used the ancient nickname for Texas' most famous beverage.

"Right. One Dr Pepper for the antiquated cowboy. Gris?"

"I'm fine, thanks Warrick."

They watched in silence as the tall CSI walked up the dirt path towards the building that housed the indoor cages, bowling alley and arcade.

* * *

When Grissom learned Nick wasn't at home this afternoon, he'd known exactly where to look. Nick wasn't allowed to do anything more than the lightest physical activity. And although he technically wasn't supposed to be outside, the older man knew Nick couldn't resist breaking out the bats on a sunny afternoon like this. He also hadn't been surprised to find Warrick alongside him.

The supervisor watched in silence as Nick swung away at the next series of pitches. He looked like a college kid wearing his backwards Texas Rangers cap.

"How're you hittin' 'em?"

"Fine at first, but a lot of ground balls in the last set." Nick wiped his forehead on his shirtsleeve. "I get tired so quickly."

"It's normal, Nick. Don't push it."

The younger man let out a harsh sigh. "I'm sorry, Gris."

"Hey, Nick, you don't have to apologize. I just don't want you to have a setback."

Grissom watched, confused, as he averted his gaze.

"I, uh… wasn't talking about that."

_Oh. _

_Well, here we go._

"Nick… what…"

The younger man dove right in. "I guess I didn't think twice about trusting her early on. I just made it easy for her. I put you all in danger."

Grissom could hardly believe what he was hearing. A psychotic woman drugged him to the brink of death and he was _apologizing?_

"Your senses were dulled by the potency of that poison. You had a raging fever… were hallucinating half the time. Nick, I shouldn't have to tell you that nothing was ever your fault." He waited, watching for some type of reaction. Nick seemed to mull it over as if the other man had just made the whole thing up. "What I _should_ be telling you is how amazingly you acted under the circumstances."

He might as well have suggested he was giving up forensics for professional hula dancing, judging by his colleague's reaction.

"By the time we were in the warehouse, you were so sick that no one knows how you woke up, let alone aimed and fired a gun. She underestimated you, Nick. She didn't check your pockets for a phone because she didn't think you'd be strong enough to do it. She didn't hesitate leaving the gun with you because she thought you wouldn't have the wits to fire it."

You exceeded every expectation and then some, he thought. But it seemed Nick was still reeling in self-doubt.

"What about her son? I shot her… I _killed _her, Gris. She could have gotten help. She could have still been a good mother. Now he doesn't have anyone."

Grissom wasn't surprised Nick would be concerned about those left behind.

"She moved to Vegas just for this, Nick. She planned and executed this knowing she wouldn't survive it. She didn't want to. And we don't know if she ever would have recovered. The only thing we know for sure is, that bomb was very real – and she intended to kill everyone there."

_Except me,_ he shuddered, remembering her wish for him to drown alone in his guilt.

Nick still wasn't convinced, so the older man pressed on.

"And as for her son, he has other family. We've met them. Staying with her wasn't healthy anymore, regardless."

"I just… I should have seen it earlier." He watched as Nick slipped a few more quarters in the machine.

"The only thing you did was save everyone at that warehouse."

Grissom silently admonished himself. The malicious intent behind her words notwithstanding, Mrs. Mason had a point. Did Nick sacrifice without knowing his value? Did he realize how vital he was to this team? The older man didn't understand why Nick considered himself to be so expendable, and even when he does something incredible, brushes it off.

He didn't know how to make it clear. His pride. His admiration. _Why couldn't he just get the words out?_

The silence between them extended as Nick swung his bat and Grissom struggled for meaningful articulation. He cursed his ongoing ineptitude at dealing with people. And this wasn't just "people," it was a man he'd worked closely with for the last who-knows-how-many years. Grissom watched as Nick solidly connected with another pitch, sending it screaming into the catch-net…

…and then he realized the answer was right in front of him.

"You know, Nick," he started, the younger CSI still spraying pitches all over the cage. "Baseball purists can argue for weeks about who the five or so greatest teams in history are. But one that leaves no room for debate is the Big Red Machine – the Cincinnati teams of the mid 70s."

"Yeah," Nick grunted out, swinging again. "I wouldn't dispute that one."

"It was a magical team, Nick. These days, clubs with enough money can just buy themselves a replica. Back then, though, it was really one of those 'stars aligned' moments. It was such an eclectic mix of talents and personalities, you almost had to wonder how they stuck together. They had big names and _bigger_ names... but everyone had a role."

"I remember. '76 is one of my dad's favorite World Series. He loved seeing the Yankees get swept."

"Yes. But when Tony Perez was traded in 1977, the Big Red Machine fell apart. Even though it was still a team with Pete Rose, Johnny Bench, and Joe Morgan – three guys recently named to baseball's All Century Team – it was the end of that dynasty. Rose had the hustle and headfirst slides. Bench had the arm and the acclaim. Morgan had the speed and the MVP awards. But Perez had been the glue – the real heart of that team."

Grissom paused briefly, trying to gauge his colleague's reaction. Nick had stopped swinging and now stood, bat on shoulder, turned towards him with questioning eyes.

"Now, Perez is a Hall of Famer himself, a phenomenal player with an abundance of accomplishments… but it was his other assets that were forgotten. When he was traded, fans thought, 'well, we still have everyone else… it'll be fine.' They couldn't have been more wrong. I don't think even Perez realized his true value until he saw the mess the Reds had become without him. The organization calls that trade the worst mistake in their history.

"It's easy to be overshadowed or to feel expendable when surrounded by a great team. But a great team is always the sum of its parts – all of them."

The only sound between them was the _thwack_ of the forgotten pitch hitting the canvas-covered backstop. Nick, who was now staring at the dusty ground behind the gate, was a pretty easy read most of the time; Grissom could tell it was all sinking in.

Nick finally looked back up, his eyes shining and voice slightly choked. "I've actually heard the same argument made about their manager, Sparky Anderson."

Grissom smiled. He should have known Nick would say something like that… though it seemed they finally neared an understanding. "Ahh, but Sparky always said, 'without such great players, I would be nothing… just a guy in a dugout.'"

He didn't respond, just shook his head and reached for his bat.

"Nick?"

His CSI looked back up at him, waiting.

"Just…"

_I couldn't be more proud of you. _

_I couldn't be more appreciative of you. _

_I couldn't begin to tell you what a wonderful colleague, friend, and person you are._

_I couldn't have lived with myself if you had died without knowing it. I guess she was right about one thing.__  
_

"Hurry back," he finished.

Nick looked back at him with a small, unsure smile bordering on embarrassment. Grissom didn't blame him – he'd just used up his year's quota of people skills. That was shocking in itself. But they both needed it. He walked over to the autobox and slipped in a couple more quarters as Nick resumed his batting stance.

"Don't spend too much longer out here. You're not even supposed to be outside."

"My Dreamcast controller is out of batteries."

"Tell Warrick to stop and get you some on the way home."

"Fine, but it's not my fault if he ends up staying over to play Madden during shift."

Grissom merely raised an eyebrow. "Now remember, you have a goal, here. I've already penciled you in to lead off against Day Shift opening weekend. Ecklie actually thinks they have a shot now."

"That's what the Yankees thought in '76, too."

"I know. And hey – no more of those office politics mercy runs – let's go for the shutout this time around."

Nick smiled.

Six weeks later, they did.

* * *

Fin.

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**Edit: By popular demand -- the softball game mentioned above is now its own story. Check out "Napoleon's Battle Plan" in my profile.**

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Whew! Ok, time to spill the beans. This fic was inspired by (and written entirely for) my favorite cohort, who's having a rather stressful autumn and just needed a little NickyWhumpage. I promised her some old-school Mulderfic last year and never got around to it, so I hope this sufficed. Dearest, you wondered how this iboneki person (by the way that's actually "(i) kenobi" backwards… not "I bone Nicky," though your way certainly has its appeal) got into our heads. Well, now you know (and yes, I practically had a neon sign with my name flashing during this last chapter with the TT and Reds references, but… I was telling you at the end anyway. So nyah!). If you're going to throw things at me, at least let them be soft? JudgesWife sez stop worrying! I hope you liked it.

But the fact that so many other people seemed to enjoy it gives me lots of warm fuzzies. Writing your first official fanfic, flying without a beta, and unable to consult your best friend because she's the one you're playing the dirty trick on makes for some frustrating moments, so I just wanna say thanks to everyone who took time to review and give suggestions and feedback. Extra points to those who stuck with it from the beginning when I had no idea where it was going. Special thanks goes to Beth for being the coolest celebrity penpal ever, and also to Kristen and Ann for their , thanks again all, and take care.


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